


There's No Rest For The Wicked

by SummerSwan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, Politics, Revenge, Secret Identity, Sexual Content, Sister-Sister Relationship, Stark Sisters, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerSwan/pseuds/SummerSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lannisters destroyed and scattered the Stark family, stealing everything they had to feed their own greed. Ten years later, and they’re finally sure they’ve gotten away with their crimes, unaware the Stark sisters have both returned to burn their kingdom down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne Stone was born in the psychiatric ward of St. Helena’s to protect Sansa Stark. Alayne knew how to lie. Alayne knew the true nature of the world. Sansa knew love and beauty and mercy. Alayne knew only survival and vengeance. Sansa Stark walked into the fire, and Alayne Stone emerged from the ashes.

_Identity. We can spend our entire lives crafting one around who we think we are only to have it shattered in an instant._

_Sansa Stark was beautiful. Sansa Stark was perfect. She had a happy family, a charming smile, and dreams of someday marrying Robert Baratheon’s handsome, green-eyed son. That was the identity she clung to because that was all she needed, all she ever wanted. But after her father was convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, after her mother and eldest, dearest brother were killed in a mysterious fire, after she was committed and torn away from her remaining family, the world became a place Sansa Stark couldn’t survive in any longer._

_Alayne Stone was born in the psychiatric ward of St. Helena’s to protect Sansa Stark. Alayne knew how to lie. Alayne knew the true nature of the world. Sansa knew love and beauty and mercy. Alayne knew only survival and vengeance. Sansa Stark walked into the fire, and Alayne Stone emerged from the ashes._

_It was Petyr Baelish who finally gave Alayne her name, along with a passport, a driver’s license, diplomas from fancy schools, and all of the other superficial aspects we think make up an identity. It was Petyr Baelish who gave Alayne brown hair instead of auburn, green eyes instead of summer blues, low cut dresses in dark reds and greens and blacks instead of modest collars and flowing skirts of pink and white._

_At night, when that scared little girl sometimes reemerges amidst dreams of missing siblings and mocking Lannister grins, Sansa Stark likes to think Alayne Stone is only a mask she has to wear for now. But when one wears a mask long enough, it becomes harder and harder to judge where the lie ends and reality begins._

 

* * *

 

“Say it again,” Petyr demanded.

Alayne rolled her eyes. “Well, hello there, my name is Alayne Stone.” She moved her hand in front of her in a mock handshake. “My parents died in a tragic car accident when I was just a girl, leaving me an orphan and the sole heir to their substantial fortune. I entered the foster care system but moved out on my own the moment I turned eighteen, sick of people trying to adopt me only to get their hands on my inheritance. Luckily, I eventually found Petyr Baelish, my dear uncle, the brother of my last foster mother, and he helped me get into the best schools in the world. I attended Gulltown Academy in the Vale and then Braavos University across the Narrow Sea where I earned my advanced degrees in English Literature and Political Theory. Since I graduated, I have devoted my time to a variety of charities and—”

“It’s truly a shame we can’t take that awful dye out of your hair.”

She abandoned the familiar recitation and twirled one of her newly brown tresses around her finger. The color was nice enough, dark and rich with lighter streaks of chestnut running throughout. Still, she often found herself reminiscing on how the sun used to dance across her copper locks, making them shine like red gold. But that hair belonged to another girl and another life. “A shame,” she agreed quietly. “Do you think it will be enough?”

The hair wasn’t the only change. The contacts Petyr bought her made her eyes appear a dark green instead of their usual blue. She was significantly taller now, taller than Petyr even, and longer and leaner with the curves of a woman grown. The last time any of them saw her she was a wide-eyed, redheaded girl of eleven. She had told herself a hundred times since she arrived to the Arbor that no one would recognize her, but the fear, irrational as it might have been, refused to be banished.

“They wanted to forget your face, my dear, so they did, trust me,” Petyr assured her. “What they remember of Sansa Stark is a pathetic, weeping little girl who had just lost everything. Alayne Stone is a confident, wealthy, _striking_ young woman.” The tips of his fingers brushed lightly over the sides of her sheer dress before resting on her hips. “It will be enough.”

One of his hands pressed deeper into her hip while the other reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. When Petyr first found her, not even a month after her release, she couldn’t quite decide if he saw her as the daughter with Catelyn Tully he never had or as the lover Catelyn Tully never was to him. A year later, and she still wasn’t sure. Maybe he didn’t even know.

She gently pushed his hand away and moved to lean over the balcony of her new porch, or rather her old porch, Sansa Stark’s old porch. It had been nearly ten years since she last stood here and watched the waves crash against shore, but she had been with Mother and Father and Robb and Jon and Arya and Bran and baby Rickon then. Petyr Baelish was the only family Alayne Stone had. “Have you heard anything more about my sister? Or the boys?”

Petyr sighed. He hated when she brought up her siblings. _Thinking of them will only cloud your judgment, Alayne_ , he must have told her a thousand times. “If I did, don’t you think that would be the first thing I’d tell you? Your sister’s trail grows cold the moment she escapes the juvenile detention center. The youngest was put into the foster care system, but no one, no matter how much money they are offered, seems to have any notion of where exactly he ended up. And the cripple—”

“ _Don’t_ call him that,” Sansa snapped. “Petyr, just don’t. Please.”

She could tell he was barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, but he only nodded and had the grace not to smirk for once. “Your _other_ brother is still in a coma. The nurse is instructed to alert me the moment he wakes, and if she does contact me, you are the first person I will tell.”

“And Jon? Is there any news of Jon?”

“The bastard?”

“His name is _Jon_ ,” she said through clenched teeth. “Is he still in Essos?”

Petyr sighed again and paused for a moment before finally answering. “Rumor has it that he is in Oldtown now, but—”

“Oldtown?” she shouted. “Oldtown? Are you sure? Why didn’t you tell me, Petyr? Oldtown is only a boat ride and a two-hour drive from here. Do you know—?”

“ _Shh_ ,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to her lips. “See, this is why I was hesitant to tell you at all, love. If this is going to be done right, you need to be completely focused. Alayne Stone has no brothers, bastard or otherwise.”

Alayne took a deep breath and remained quiet until he removed his finger. “What is Jon doing in Oldtown?”

“My sources say he’s looking for your sister. He’s been showing her picture all around town.”

_But not_ my _picture._ She knew the jealousy that made her feel was unfair. She and Jon never had much of a relationship, certainly not like him and Arya did, but it bothered her he had apparently forgotten he had two missing sisters. “Then—then I need to go help him, don’t I? If there’s a chance Arya is as close as Oldtown, I have to—”

“You have to make this world safe enough for them to come back to, that’s what you have to do,” he finished for her. “Once you find them, what do you expect to do exactly? Run back North to a home that doesn’t exist anymore? Come back here? To a place where Starks are no longer welcome? Or will you flee across the Narrow Sea with your tail between your legs, allowing these greedy bastards to get away with their crimes against your family? Sansa—” It had been so long since he had used her real name that the sound of it sent her heart racing. “—These people took everything from you. They’re the reason your family is scattered. The best thing you can do for your siblings is destroy those that wish to harm them.”

_He’s only saying that to keep you by his side. He doesn’t give a damn what happens to Jon or Arya or any of us except me._ But that didn't make him wrong. While the Lannisters still sat upon their throne, feeding their greed with her family’s downfall, she knew her remaining family would never find the peace it deserved. There was no way Alayne could leave the Arbor now, not without the revenge Sansa so desperately needed.

“Taena Merryweather is the first target.”

“Interesting choice.” Petyr grinned, clearly relieved by the shift in conversation. “Removing Cersei’s best friend first.”

“It has nothing to do with Cersei. Well, that’s not true, but it has as much to do with Taena as it does with her. My father _trusted_ Taena. She was his secretary for nearly ten years before she fed him to the lions without a second thought,” she sneered, her small fists clenching in the skirt of her summer dress. “She helped them forge evidence and then testified against him. That traitor didn’t even flinch when she called my father a murderer."

“What do you have in mind for her?”

“I learned something rather remarkable about Mrs. Merryweather while volunteering at Oldtown General,” Alayne began, wearing a smirk that could rival one of Petyr’s. “How do you think Cersei will react when she learns Tommen’s best friend Russell Merryweather is actually his bastard half-brother?”

The look of astonishment on Petyr’s face made her feel absurdly proud. It certainly wasn’t often she knew something he didn’t. “You’re telling me that—”

“That Taena had an affair with Robert Baratheon right under Cersei’s nose and has successfully hidden it for all these years?” Alayne cut in. “Oh, yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I heard a rumor about it in Oldtown. Thought it was complete rubbish, to be honest. I don’t even know what I was expecting to find when I went digging through her medical records, but I thought it was worth a shot, and then there it was, a paternity test with Robert Baratheon’s name on it. My only regret is that I won’t be able to see Cersei’s face when she opens the copy I just had sent to her. I mailed it to Orton Merryweather first, of course. How do you think I managed to arrange it so the Merryweathers were willing to sell this house in the first place? I hear it’s shaping up to be a pretty nasty divorce.”

“Oh, Alayne, you are at your most beautiful when you’re being wicked,” Petyr laughed, his eyes dark. “I’m sure it will make the silent auction tonight all the more entertaining. Though don’t think I’ve forgotten you have yet to choose your real target.”

The idea of flirting with and possibly even sleeping with one of the Lannisters made her feel physically ill, but Petyr insisted it was the best way to worm her way into the family and Baratheon Capital. She had thought the lot of them so beautiful as a girl. Their shining, golden locks, feline smiles, and emerald eyes had mesmerized her. But that was before they murdered Robert Baratheon and his bastard son and framed her father for the crime. That was before they killed Mother and Robb.

“I still don’t think using Joffrey is a very good idea. Everyone who’s mentioned him seems to think he’s a joke. Even as kids, he was an absolute prat.”

“He’s your best bet, love. He’s the closest to your age and an easy mark. Just play up those innocent smiles of yours, and he won’t be able to resist you. He gets off on corrupting sweet young girls. But since the last one ended up in the hospital after he drunkenly wrapped his car around a telephone pole, he’s had a bit more trouble attracting them.”

_How charming._ “What about Jaime Lannister? He's single, and no one thinks he’s a joke. And he’d certainly have more access to the—”

Petyr was already shaking his head. “I’ve told you time and time again that Jaime Lannister is an impossible mark. Even for a woman of your considerable charms.”

_Maybe I appreciate the challenge, Petyr._ “I suppose I’ll decide once I get there, see whose eyes I catch first,” she conceded, too tired for another argument on the subject. She was about to ask him to leave so she could start getting dressed when she noticed something stir out of the corner of her eye. She lifted her head to see Cersei Lannister-Baratheon, clad in a scarlet robe with her golden locks blowing in the wind, looking down at her from the top floor porch of the Baratheon Manor. It was too far away to make out the look on her face, but when the woman began to wave, Sansa imagined her smiling just like she had been smiling at her father’s trial.

Sansa raised her hand and waved back. She doubted Cersei could see her very well either, but she forced a smile on to her face all the same. “I want to cast her down and take away everything she has ever held dear,” she hissed through her caricature of a grin. “I want to burn every possession, every trinket, every cent she has and make her watch the flames until only the ashes of her life remain.”

The speech would have frightened most people—it even frightened her a little, to hear it coming out of Sansa Stark’s mouth, in Sansa’s Stark’s voice—but Petyr only laughed softly and said, “You have no idea how much I look forward to seeing that happen, my sweet Alayne.” She heard him move away from her toward the stairs, but before he left, he turned and added, “Wear the green dress tonight, sweetling, and those silver earrings I bought you. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you.”

 

* * *

 

She did wear the green dress with its short, shimmering skirt and plunging neckline, along with the dangling, silver mockingbird earrings Petyr gifted her with on her last birthday—Alayne’s birthday. The mix of colors made Alayne’s eyes shine. The moment she stepped on to the yacht, she felt all of their eyes lock on her. Petyr was right. He was always right.

“Oh my god, Alayne, you almost look too fabulous!” Jeyne Poole exclaimed, as she pulled her into a quick embrace. “I’d bet my $400 shoes you end up on the front of the Arbor Post style section tomorrow. I’ll be lucky if I get in there even once all summer. No one cares what the help is wearing.”

“Oh, Jeyne, stop it, you look absolutely stunning. Red is your color,” Alayne praised, entwining her arm with Jeyne’s and leaning close to her like one would a dear friend. In truth, she found Jeyne Poole more than a little grating. Half the time, all the girl could talk about was falling in love with one of the wealthy sons that flocked to Arbor Island in the summer, and the other half of the time, she was talking about Cersei Baratheon’s latest injustice against her. But annoying as she could be, she wasn’t entirely useless. In fact, Alayne had picked her out specifically at one of her charity events last winter. She was the very definition of a social climber, and an unexpectedly ruthless one at that, with the best ear for gossip she had ever met and an in to the Baratheon Manor and all its secrets. “So when do I get to meet your infamous boss?”

Jeyne grimaced, as she swiped a pair of bright pink cocktails filled with strawberry slices from a server. “Trust me, you want to put off your meeting with Queen Cersei for as long as possible. Don’t be fooled by the smiles or the compliments; she’s positively vicious when she wants to be. She finds women younger and prettier than her threatening, so she’s clearly going to loathe you.”

“Well, she hired you, didn’t she?”

Jeyne blushed and pushed the drink into her hand. “That talent for flattery will get you far around here, Alayne,” she laughed. “No, the Queen hired me because I was the dullest of the applicants. But I was also the smartest whether she realizes it or not, and after this party she ought to be kissing my feet.”

“It really is magnificent,” Alayne sighed, taking in the beautiful drapes and the beautiful platters and the beautiful people all around her. This was the life she remembered. This was the life Sansa Stark had lived before it all went wrong.

Jeyne sighed as well, cocking her head to the side like she was observing a great masterpiece. “It really is, isn’t it? And mark my words, Alayne, I won’t even get a damn thank you for all my trouble. The caterers dropped out on me at the last minute, you know. I practically had to whore myself out to get someone else on such short notice, but she’ll just turn up her nose at me and find something to bitch about.”

“I don’t see what she could possibly bitch about, really. Everything’s—” The intended reassurance fell apart when her eyes landed on someone she recognized a little too well. Theon Greyjoy was leaning casually against the bar, staring openly at her with a familiar smirk on his lips. When he lifted his hand to wave, she could see the recognition on his face plainly, and her stomach sank to her toes. _What the hell is he even doing here?_

“Oh, that’s just Theon Greyjoy,” Jeyne grumbled, after following Alayne's gaze. “Ugh, just ignore him. He’s a real ass, but he’s got more money than everyone else here combined, so we were basically forced to invite him. He's some sort of tech kid prodigy hacker geek thing, I don't know. Having him here totally ruins the _refined_ atmosphere I was going for.”

“Oh.” She was about to look away from Theon and offer her newfound friend some false words of sympathy when Jeyne was called away to attend to an ice shortage crisis, leaving Alayne to fend for herself in a sea of people she’s not supposed to remember. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she walked, sizing her up, looking for any peculiarity in the new girl to gossip about.

Cersei Lannister-Baratheon’s eyes were like emeralds, sharp against the gleaming gold of her tumbling curls. They locked on Alayne’s and a smile stretched across her face. Her lipstick looked like the blood always dripping from her hands, her sleeves, and her _fangs_ in Sansa’s nightmares. She waved again, like she had from her porch, fingers closed together like she really was a queen. It felt as if a predator had spotted her and was trying to lure her into its claws with a pretty smile. Sansa’s first instinct was to look for the exits and run, but Alayne’s was to fight, to pounce and slash her sharp, freshly manicured fingernails across the other woman’s face.

A hand pressed against her shoulder before either instinct could win out. “Excuse me, but do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar. It’s been driving me mad.”

Margaery Tyrell was different than Sansa remembered her. As a girl, she was fond of tying her hair in long, messy pigtails and wore glasses that made her eyes look twice their actual size. More often than not, she was dressed in her brothers' baggy, tattered hand-me-downs, which Sansa had always wrinkled her nose at. _Freckle Face_ —that was what she recalls the other girls sneering at her, but none of those freckles were visible under the flawless sheen of makeup adorning this woman’s face. Sansa was the pretty one, the polite one, and Margaery the eccentric, the ugly duckling. But when her eyes took in the shimmering gold cocktail dress hugging every curve of the Rose of Highgarden’s body like a glove, she felt as if their roles had been reversed.

She twisted one of her sleek, chestnut brown curls around a finger, as she waited patiently for Sansa’s answer. “No, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Alayne answered, after searching Margaery’s stunning face for what she hoped was an appropriate amount of time. “I’m new to the Arbor. Alayne Stone.”

Margaery accepted her outstretched hand with only the tips of her fingers, like she expected Alayne to kiss the back of her hand. “Oh, how lovely. I do so enjoy meeting new people. Coming to the Arbor has grown stale lately, with the same people year after year, you know? My name is Margaery, Margaery Tyrell, from Highgarden. Where are you from, Alayne Stone?”

“I’m originally from Gulltown in the Vale, but I’ve been living in Braavos for the last few years, attending Braavos University.”

“Ah, so you’re beautiful and smart then? You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” Margaery teased. She was still ginning pleasantly, but Alayne noticed a brief flicker of annoyance pass over her former companion’s face. “But as long as you keep your hands off my boyfriend, I think we’ll be golden.”

“Threatening our guests, love? Shouldn’t a Tyrell have better manners?” Sansa felt her mouth tighten and her hands clench into fists at the sight of him. When he draped his arm over Margaery’s shoulders, it was all she could do not to shudder at the memory of him doing the same to her as a girl. His hair was still a glorious mess of golden curls and his eyes still the sharpest, loveliest emerald green, but now the lips she once thought so lovely and so very kissable looked like a pair of fat worms smacking together and his white teeth like a set of fangs. _How could you have ever had a crush on him? How could you have ever thought him beautiful?_

“Oh, it was just a bit of innocent teasing,” Margaery laughed brightly, wrapping her arms around Joffrey’s waist. “This is my boyfriend, Joffrey Baratheon, one of the hosts of tonight’s party. Joffrey, meet Alayne Stone. She’s new to the island, from the Vale. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, yes, Alayne?”

_I’ve heard he preys on younger girls. I’ve heard he’s a drunkard with a well-documented streak of casual cruelty._ "Of course. Who hasn't?"

When Joffrey reached out for her hand, he looked at her like a lion might regard a gazelle. His eyes dripped languidly over her body, from the tops of her breasts to the silver straps of her heels, with no apparent concern over his girlfriend’s presence for the disgusting display. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Alayne.” When his wormy lips smiled at her, Sansa worried she might be sick. She could steal him from Margaery, she was sure of that just from the way he looked at her. Perhaps it would even serve the girl right after what her family did to the Starks. But Joffrey’s hands against her skin seemed like too big of a price to pay, even for her revenge.

"Nice to meet you, too." She could feel a grimace forming on her face despite her best efforts when Joffrey pressed a wet, leisurely kiss to her knuckles. The moment he released her hand, she started to back away from them. “If you would please excuse me for a moment, I need to—” She began to turn, as she offered the excuse, only to crash into the person standing behind her, soaking the man’s jacket with the sickeningly sweet cocktail in her hand.

“Shit,” the man exclaimed, looking down at the violently pink stain on his white suit jacket. Practically the entire party turned to stare at them, and Alayne felt like she might actually die of mortification. _So much for making a good first impression, I guess._ At least half of the crowd was instantly falling over itself to offer him a napkin and tips on how to remove the stain, and that’s when Alayne realized whom it was she was standing next to. _Oh fucking hell, did I just spill a cocktail on Jaime Lannister?_ “It’s fine,” Jaime grunted, waving them all away. “I should’ve known better than to wear white anyways.”

“I am so, so sorry,” she whispered, still conscious of everyone staring at her. “I’m such an asshole sometimes.”

To her surprise, Jaime laughed. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ve saved me from ever having to wear this heinous jacket again. What’s your name, beautiful?”

Alayne felt the blood rush to her cheeks and knew her pale skin must have been turning a rather shocking shade of red.  _Don't blush. You look like a tomato when you blush_ , Margaery's grandmother used to snap at her. She inwardly cursed herself for the show of weakness. Alayne Stone didn’t blush. Alayne Stone didn’t let men have the upper hand, not even Jaime Lannister. _But, seven hells, is he beautiful._ Alayne had thought plenty of men handsome, but with his strong jaw and striking eyes and high, almost feminine cheekbones, the only word Alayne could find for Jaime Lannister was _beautiful_. His hair was golden like the rest of his family’s but with just the right amount of gray streaked throughout it to make him look distinguished in a way she expected few women could resist. Looking at him now, she felt like a fool for suggesting to Petyr she could seduce him. She wasn’t sure a man like this would even look twice at her, no matter how much leg her green dress revealed.

“A—Alayne Stone,” she sputtered out, somehow feeling even more dreadfully foolish than before. “I really am sorry—”

Jaime grasped her elbow with one hand and leaned in close, so close she could smell the whiskey clinging to his breath. “Trust me, Alayne, you did me a favor. I’m actually not sure how I will manage to repay you.” He straightened back out and smiled. “Jaime Lannister,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Is this your first time summering in the Arbor?”

Alayne could barely make out what he was saying over the slamming of her heart against her ribcage. She hated herself for reacting to him like this, for reacting to any Lannister like this. She wanted to remind herself of the way he had smirked when he whispered in his sister’s ear during the trial. She wanted to remind herself of the way she had heard him mocking her father when the police slapped the cuffs around his wrists at the New Year’s Eve party. But he was a powerful man and the perfect person to let her into the secret world of the Lannisters, so she pushed those memories aside.

“Yes, I’m new to the island,” she said, finally recovering her voice. “I just returned from studying at Braavos University and wished to relax for the summer. I’ve heard such wonderful things about the Arbor, I decided to confirm the rumors for myself.”

“And is it as lovely as you expected?”

“Lovelier,” she all but whispered back, smiling at him in the crooked, suggestive way she knew men loved.

Jaime’s eyes widened for a moment, before he took an obvious step back from her. Alayne’s stomach dropped at the rejection. _What the hell did I do wrong?_ She searched her mind for something to say to make the entire exchange less awkward and save some face, but the other Lannister brother rescued her from it.

“Did you say Braavos University?” Tyrion Lannister looked up at her with his hideously mismatched eyes. Looking upon them used to fill her with revulsion as a girl. She and Margaery even used to whisper over whether the black one was the evil eye. But she remembered that those terrible eyes were the only ones to look on her with pity when the guilty verdict was read. _I’m so sorry_ , he had whispered, while grasping her skinny forearm. _This isn’t what I wanted._

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Have you been there?”

“Tyrion has studied at all sorts of places,” Jaime answered for him. “He’s the intellectual of the family."

“I took a few classes on Valyrian mythology there, yes,” Tyrion explained. “I’ve always had a fascination with dragon lore.”

“With Professor Targaryen then? She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I studied literature and had a class with her.”

Tyrion grinned and looked at her like he had just stumbled upon a great fortune. “Literature?”

“Oh, you’ve done it now, Alayne,” Jaime chuckled. “So few here will humor my dear brother’s obsession with books. I’m afraid he will never leave you alone now. Why don’t you invite Miss Stone to explore our library sometime, Tyrion?”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed, never removing his eyes from her. “You really should come see it. I’ve never much liked the Baratheon Manor, but the library is incredible. We have some first edition books I think you’d be very interested to see."

_Perhaps I did choose the wrong target._ There was an almost desperate look in Tyrion’s eyes, as he awaited her answer. She had the feeling it would be easy to seduce him, perhaps even easier than Joffrey, but she couldn’t shake the disappointment building in her gut. “I would love to see it,” she forced herself to answer. “Fortuitously, I’m your new neighbor, so it will not be much of a journey for me.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to answer, but Cersei’s voice booming out from a microphone at the front of the yacht made the entire party fall silent. “Welcome, guests! I wanted to take this time to thank all of you for coming today, and of course for bringing your wallets with you to support such a wonderful charity. The bidding is now closed, and it looks like this is our most generous year in history!”

There was a round of applause at that and some whistles. Cersei allowed the roar of the crowd to wash over for a moment before continuing. “Before we announce the winners, there are some special people I must thank for helping me make this event such a success. First, to my assistant, Jeyne Poole—though she had some missteps along the way, it was nothing I couldn’t fix. Why don’t we give her a hand?” As the guests bursted into another round of cheering, Alayne turned to see Jeyne Poole scowling into her champagne.

“And, of course, there’s my dear, dear friend Taena Merryweather.”

Alayne felt the hairs of her arms stand up on end at the name. Though Cersei still looked as pleased as when she had started the speech, there was something different about her eyes now, something that made her anxious.

“We’ve been friends for many years, as you all well know, I’m sure,” Cersei went on. “That is why I’m so heartbroken to announce that this will be Taena’s goodbye party.”

There was an eruption of gasps, none louder than the one from Taena’s mouth. The color drained from the exotic brunette’s tanned skin. There was fear in her eyes, fear so palpable Sansa could practically taste it. She took the sight in and relished the dread on the woman’s face. _This isn’t even half of what you deserve._

“As you might have heard, Taena and her husband of eighteen years, Orton, are going through a most tragic and painful divorce. I so hoped that their story would be one of forgiveness, but Orton has not yet been able to pardon Taena’s unfortunate infidelity.”

More gasps. The buzz of whispers joined the noise this time, so loud it was as if a massive nest of bees had been kicked. Tears began to form in Taena’s eyes.

“Let it be a lesson in loyalty,” Cersei nearly had to shout over the crowd. “Betrayal is never something to be taken lightly. Taena will be moving back to Myr, where her ex-husband first stumbled upon her, and I fear we may never share her company again. Now, if you would all join me in a toast to Taena—”

Taena Merryweather had always been a proud woman. Sansa remembered watching her in awe in her youth, admiring the way she walked with such poise and such sensuality at the same time. But now her head was hanging low in shame, and she dashed from the ship before Cersei could say another word.

_Good. I hope you suffer._

Cersei merely shrugged at the abrupt exit and continued on with her speech, thanking a host of other people and announcing the auction winners. Even though Alayne had no doubt Cersei could usually command a room as easily as she could breathe, the partygoers were too caught up in the drama that had just unfolded before their eyes to pay much attention. They were gossiping away about Taena’s humiliation, a little too gleefully for Sansa’s taste. _She destroyed my family, not yours_ , she almost wanted to shout at them. _Why the hell are you all so pleased?_

“They just love to watch others in pain.” Disdain oozed from the words, and she was surprised to turn and find they had come from Jaime’s lips. “A bunch of sick sadists, the entire lot of them.” There was disgust etched into every line of his face, and she couldn't help but wonder where that disgust was when his sister did so much worse to Ned Stark for so much less.

 

* * *

 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ She cursed herself the entire walk back from the party. She wasn’t sure what she considered the greatest failure, coming on too strong with Jaime Lannister, neglecting to factor in Theon’s presence, or not feeling the relief she expected after Taena’s fall.

She felt dirty. She hated that she gave those awful people another person to tear apart. She hated that Joffrey Baratheon had touched her, even if only for a moment. And she hated the way her heart had raced at the sight of Jaime Lannister. Her reaction to him felt like a betrayal, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it were for the best he had rebuffed her.

As she walked, she drifted closer and closer to the water’s edge. She liked the sound of crashing waves. During her summers spent here as a girl, she didn’t swim much. She didn’t like the way the salt water tangled her hair and messed up her perfectly applied makeup. The old aversion disappeared during her time in Braavos. There was something freeing about water, something cleansing that allowed her to pretend she really was a different person for a while, one who had never had to watch her family fall apart.

She let the expensive green fabric of her dress pool around her feet in the sand. She stepped into water in nothing but her underwear, surprised at how warm it was. She waded further and further in until the water reached her breasts and then stopped to look up at the blanket of stars twinkling above her. The lights of Gulltown and Braavos were always too bright to see the stars properly, and Sansa didn’t realize how much she had missed them until that moment.

They made her think of Robb, the older brother she didn’t realize how deeply she adored until he was taken from her. Astronomy was his favorite hobby, though he was always too worried about what other people thought of him in high school to admit it to anyone but her. She and Robb never had much in common, but they were so alike in some ways, always so mindful of how others perceived them. She could sympathize with the way he hid parts of himself from the world, so she always let him ramble on and on to her during summer nights about the stars and the planets and their patterns.

_“Do you have a favorite constellation?”_ she had asked him once.

Robb had furrowed his brow and considered that for a moment, as the two of them lay back on the beach, their legs sprawled out in front of them and their eyes on the heavens above. _“Orion, maybe. I like the mythology behind it. He was a great hunter and said to be the most handsome of the mortals.”_

_“Oh, god, Robb, that would be your favorite.”_

Robb had snorted and shrugged his shoulders. _“He did piss off a goddess and get himself killed by a scorpion, so there’s that.”_

_“Do any of the constellations remind you of me?”_

His answer was quicker than she had expected. _“I think you’d like the story of Andromeda. Her own father chained her to a rock in the sea to sacrifice her to a great sea monster, but the hero Perseus rescued her in the end and turned the monster into stone with Medusa’s head. They fell in love and got married and were eventually made immortal together as constellations. It sounds like one of your stupid stories, doesn’t it? Heroes and helpless maidens and all that.”_

Sansa had wanted to snap at him for that, but she found even that brief description of Andromeda terribly romantic. She had always loved the idea of someone rescuing her. Sometimes she would daydream of being kidnapped or nearly drowning, so she could then imagine a beautiful man with bright blue eyes and hair like gold fighting off her attackers or pulling her from the sea.

_Stupid girl._ She took a deep breath and plunged under the water. She stayed there and looked up at the sky through the water, ignoring the way it burned her eyes. In Braavos, she had developed a habit of doing this, for keeping her head below water for as long as she could manage. It was a game of chicken she played with herself, and it horrified her when she first realized that a small part of her hoped she would lose the game one day and pass out before she could push herself back up. It seemed like a peaceful way to die, to drift away into the sea.

She broke the surface of the water and gasped. It would take both a unique sort of bravery and a unique sort of cowardice to do such a thing, neither of which she seemed to possess.

“Be careful.”

There was a shadow standing on the beach behind her. In the faint moonlight, she couldn't make out the person’s face, but she still knew who he was. She knew from the long, slender frame and from the way he leaned forward on a dark figure that could only be a cane.

“I’m a perfectly capable swimmer.”

“That's not what I meant."

She moved toward him, wanting to see his face again more desperately than she would ever care to admit. Even at nine years her senior, she had considered him one of her closest companions once. When Robb and Arya and the others would ditch her in favor of swimming or exploring the creatures that lived near the jetties, he would always sit by her while she read or daydreamed instead. Sometimes he would even read the poems and stories of his books out loud to her. He liked tragedy and star-crossed lovers just as much as she did. He understood the magnificent catharsis of allowing a book to tear one's heart apart and leaving his or her tears forever stained across the pages.

“Then what _did_ you mean?”

She could see his face well enough now to notice how his eyes dropped to her long, bare legs and simple black bra before determinedly snapping back up to her face. As a girl, she had always paraded around in her prettiest bathing suits in front of him. He had never looked, of course, only ruffled her hair just as he would Margaery’s. She was much too young for him back then, but she couldn't deny she felt some satisfaction in the way he stared at her now.

“My sister told me we had a new neighbor sharing the beach when she got home from the auction. She said she was already getting close to the Lannisters.”

_Tell Margaery to mind her own business._ Sansa almost snapped that at him, but she caught herself. Alayne would have no idea who his sister was. Alayne would have no notion of who Willas Tyrell was, except perhaps that he was the crippled, eldest son of the Reach’s controversial senator Mace Tyrell.

“And you think she was talking about me?”

“Alayne Stone, is it?”

“Word travels fast around here, apparently.” She smiled, as she walked even closer to him, making no move to slip her dress back on. “And you would be?”

“Willas Tyrell.” He didn’t reach for her hand. She suspected by the way he was clenching his jaw and holding so tightly to his cane that he was afraid to touch her.

“Margaery’s brother then? Your sister is lovely.”

“Yes, amongst other things,” Willas said wryly. “She thought you were interested in her awful boyfriend and his piles of money. I informed her that if you had even half a brain in your head, you’d know better.”

She almost laughed at that, but she held back, unsure if he was testing her in some way. There was a time she would have trusted sweet Willas Tyrell implicitly. But he was nearly twenty-one when Mace Tyrell put her father on trial and helped wrongfully convict him. He was old enough to understand his father’s crimes, old enough to do something more than simply look troubled at the trial.

“Your sister has nothing to fear from me,” she answered simply. “I’ve no interest in a man's money. The Lannisters might have piles, but I have of mountains.”

“Well, then, it seems I’ve disturbed your swim for nothing.”

She was only an arm’s length away from him but, in the thick darkness, she still could not make out his face properly. She wished the sun would rise, so she could see if his eyes were the same honey brown she remembered and if his lazy curls still looked as soft. “I appreciate the warning anyways.”

“They’re dangerous. The Lannisters are dangerous, I mean. They seem nice enough at first, but they’ve done some terrible things.”

_Like what?_ She almost challenged him to go further, wanting to hear him admit exactly what his family had been party to. “I can take care of myself," she assured him instead.

“It’s ridiculous how they always refer to themselves as lions, but they do have claws. Walk into the lion’s mouth, and you might not come back.”

Alayne turned away from him and made sure to take her time when she bent down to retrieve her dress and slip it back over her body. “If I were an animal, I think I’d be a bird,” she said dreamily. She looked back and was pleased to find his mouth hanging open just slightly. “A mockingbird maybe. I’ve always liked them. And birds have nothing to fear from lions, do they? They can just fly away.”

Willas didn’t reply, just stared at her silently, as she waved to him and marched back up the beach toward her house. She could feel his eyes on her while she walked. Normally, she hated the way men looked at her. They had been eying her like predators ever since her breasts filled out and her legs grew long. But she didn’t find herself shuddering under Willas’s stare. In fact, it almost made her feel safe. It almost made her feel like Sansa.

 

* * *

 

Theon Greyjoy was sitting on her porch when she arrived, leaning back on the broken swing chair she had once caught him feeling up their maid Kyra on. “Sansa fucking Stark,” he chuckled. “Sansa fucking Stark is back in the Arbor.”

Alayne flinched at the sound of her name. Petyr used it so infrequently these days that sometimes she almost forgot what it was like to be called Sansa. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Alayne.” It was a pathetic lie, and one he clearly didn't buy for a moment.

“Oh, honey, we’re past that,” he said, hopping back to his feet. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

“We can’t talk about this out here. Anyone could hear us.” She pushed open her door and reluctantly beckoned him inside. They said nothing more until Alayne had carefully locked the door and drawn all of the curtains. “I didn’t know you would be here,” she finally said. “Why the hell _are_ you here?”

“Same reason you’re here I imagine,” Theon said, as he glanced around the house. “The last owners really wrecked this place, didn’t they? Purple wallpaper? What the hell were they thinking with this gaudy shit? Your father wouldn’t have known style even if it slapped its dick across his face, but at least he didn’t paint the walls _purple_.”

“Theon, why are you here?” she repeated.

“Using my newfound shit tons of money to make these atrocious human beings as miserable as fucking possible for what they did to your brother.” His face became more serious then, and she was forced to acknowledge that no matter how much he infuriated her sometimes, he had loved her brother fiercely before his death. “Aren’t you here to do the same? Didn’t think to dye my hair and give myself a new name though. That’s dedication.”

Sansa wasn’t surprised Theon recognized her. The rest of the Arbor hadn’t seen her since she was an eleven-year-old girl, but Theon was different. Theon was the one who picked her up from the hospital the day she was released and handed her the numbers for the bank account he had set up in her name and a locked box from her mother. _It’s Robb's money_ , he told her. _He invested his trust fund in me when no one else would even take my meetings. And your mother gave this box to him before they died. I found it in our apartment. You’re the only Stark I could track down to give it all to, but I think he would’ve wanted you to have it._ Then he had offered her a place to stay, but she had only scowled at him and called a cab instead.

“I’m serious about this, Theon. I’m going to make them suffer. You have absolutely no idea what I’m capable of.”

Theon shook his head. “Nah, I always knew there was fire behind those pretty blue eyes and insipid smiles of yours. Just like your brother.”

It was the second time he had mentioned Robb, and it made her feel like a fist was closing around her heart. “I want you to leave, Theon. I can’t let you ruin this. I have it all planned out and I can’t—”

“So let me help you,” he interrupted. “I hate them too, Sansa. I have more money than God, and I can hack into the fucking Iron Bank if that’s what you need. I can help you.”

“I work alone, Theon.”

“We both do, because of _them_ , because they left us with no one. But we don’t have to be alone anymore,” he argued. “Come on, give me a job. I’m not too proud to be the Robin to your Batman, little Stark.”

Despite herself and the seriousness of the situation, Sansa snorted. “You’re just as insufferable as always, huh?”

“And you’re just as stubborn,” he retorted. “Everyone always thought you were the good one, pliable and sweet. But you were just as stubborn as Arya in your own way.”

There was a time she would have balked at being compared to Arya, even in this small way, but now the sound of her sister’s name only filled her with regret. _I should have been kinder to her. If I could only find her, I’d tell her just that._ “If you fuck this up for me, Theon—”

“I won’t, sweetheart,” he promised, smiling like he already knew he had won. “Now get yourself into some warm clothes, and I’ll make us some coffee. Your nipples look like they could poke an eye out.”

Sansa elbowed him hard in the ribs, as she brushed past him to change. The way he laughed still grated like it used to when he teased her as a girl, but she couldn’t deny it was comforting to have someone from her past back in this house with her. Theon wasn’t Robb or Arya or Bran or Rickon or even Jon, but he was still a part of Sansa Stark and he could understand why she needed to watch them all burn.

 

* * *

 

“The dress looked cheap. I don’t know why they’re all raving about it.”

Cersei practically threw the paper at him. On the front of the Arbor Post style section was Alayne Stone wearing a stunning green and silver gown to match her dark green eyes. Just underneath her was Cersei in her gold and cream gown. _Ah, so that’s the problem_ , Varys thought, with a smirk he forced away when he looked back up.

“It looks like an authentic Black Pearl dress to me. That brand is all the rage in Braavos and—”

“I don’t care who made it,” Cersei sneered. “It looked cheap, and it was indecently short, if you ask me. But that’s not what I came here to talk about it. I need you to look into the girl. Work your magic, and report back to me.”

“Why? Did she do something to you?” _Aside from daring to be young and pretty?_

“She was all over my brothers, especially Jaime. Jaime won’t give her the time of day, but you know Tyrion. If a girl so much as blinks at him, he’s suddenly head over heels in love. The last thing this family needs is another gold digger getting her claws into him.”

“Gold digger? Didn’t she just buy the old Merryweather house with her own money?”

“Do I pay you to dig or talk, Varys?”

_You don’t pay me at all._ “Fine. I’ll get it done.”

“Good.” And with that, she was gone nearly as quickly as she had arrived.

Varys sighed and pinned the picture of Alayne Stone up on his corkboard. These requests were becoming increasingly and exasperatingly common, as Cersei grew older and the girls who came to the Arbor for the summer only seemed to grow younger. He would turn her away if he could or at least demand some money from her for these ridiculous, usually fruitless scavenger hunts, but that wasn’t their relationship and could never be after what he had helped her do.

His book, well, The Spider’s book, was leaning against his desk in the far corner. _A Broken Man: The Story of Eddard Stark’s Rise and Terrible Fall_. It was a shameful piece, even for someone like him. Varys was no stranger to lying, not since he first started writing explosive celebrity exposés for Illyrio Mopatis, but it was still disconcerting to see so many lies committed to ink. But those lies and Cersei Lannister’s money had made The Spider a household name. A small price to pay, he once thought, but he grew less sure of that with every day that passed.  
  
He tore his eyes away from the book and began typing in the girl's name. _What are you hiding, Alayne Stone?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a 17-part fic with the chapters alternating between Sansa and Arya POVs, with other POVs closing out each chapter like Varys did this one.
> 
> Sansa's story is inspired by the first season of Revenge, so some parts will definitely be familiar if you've watched it, but it will also be plenty different. I'll be posting Arya's first chapter sometime this week. It will have a bit of a darker feel than this one but nothing more intense than the actual books.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Control. It is the power to direct and influence those around us, to twist and meld their wills to match our own. It is the power to determine your own fate. It is getting everything you desire. We all want it, need it, crave it, and yet we all possess so little of it. At its core, control is an illusion. A trick of the mind we play on ourselves to keep from going mad. We can spend an entire lifetime becoming strong and wealthy and commanding, building up walls and arming ourselves to the teeth, but there is always someone waiting in the shadows to steal it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning: This chapter is a bit dark. Nothing darker than in the books, but it could come off darker in a modern setting, I think. Just wanted to give a quick heads up.

_Control. It is the power to direct and influence those around us, to twist and meld their wills to match our own. It is the power to determine your own fate. It is getting everything you desire. We all want it, need it, crave it, and yet we all possess so little of it. At its core, control is an illusion. A trick of the mind we play on ourselves to keep from going mad. We can spend an entire lifetime becoming strong and wealthy and commanding, building up walls and arming ourselves to the teeth, but there is always someone waiting in the shadows to steal it all away._

_When our carefully built walls begin to crumble around us, we do terrible things to convince ourselves we’re still in control. We starve ourselves. We watch the meat of our bodies fade away to skin stretched loose over bone just because we can. We shave our heads and pierce our bodies and scar our skin with thick, white lines and black Chinese characters we think mean something like freedom or rebel or truth. Because, in the end, all we really have control over is our own personal arrangement of flesh and bones._

_Arya Stark has never liked feeling helpless, has never liked having anything short of complete control of the world around her. She armed herself with sharp words and clenched fists from a young age, secretly practiced with Jon’s dagger in the dark of her room at night, ran miles and miles a day, and pounded her fists into Robb’s punching bag every morning, but none of it mattered in the end. The day the jury read the guilty verdict and the grin flashed across Cersei Lannister’s face, she was just as powerless as stupid, weak, naive Sansa. It felt like control was being dangled just above her outstretched hands, and all she could do was whine and jump and miss over and over again like a starved dog._

_It was worse in the juvenile detention center they sent her to after she attacked Joffrey Baratheon. All the girls were forced to wear the same khaki gray jumpsuits, to cut their hair in the same way, to eat the same shit at the same times, and to turn their lights off and pretend to sleep at nine o’clock sharp. Someone was always watching, always waiting for her to lose her temper, so they could throw her into an actual cell. Someone was always there to remind her if she didn’t behave like a good little girl, she’d never be free of the harsh white walls._

_But Arya Stark was sick of being powerless, sick of sacrificing her control to uptight bitches with bad haircuts for an elusive freedom that was still years out of her grasp. So, after nearly nine months behind those walls, she tore away her jumpsuit and chopped off her hair and slipped through a hole in her cage to become Cat of the Streets. Cat’s hair was uneven and tangled, her clothes were tattered and did little to shield her from cold winds, and her meals were sporadic at best, but she was finally the one in control. She chose where she slept, what she ate, what she said, and sometimes she even chose who lived and who died. Arya Stark had had a family and friends, a big house with a comfortable bed, and mediocre grades from a fancy private school, but Cat had nothing to lose. That was what made her powerful. And that is where Arya Stark finally found her control._

 

* * *

 

The wallet was a meager score at best. The fancy suit and the way the man walked with his chest puffed out like a peacock had made Arya sure he would be carrying enough cash to rent her a place to stay for the rest of the week at least. But all she found was a plethora of shiny black credit cards she’d never get away with using, some old condoms, and a wrinkled fifty-dollar bill.

“Damn it,” she muttered, flipping through the wallet’s pockets one more time to make sure she hadn’t missed something. “Damn it, fucking hell. Fucking douchebag.” She tossed the soft leather into the nearby dumpster and stuffed the bill into her pocket.

“Clever little girl.”

Though the man’s soft voice caught her off guard, it didn’t make her flinch. She had been living on the streets of Oldtown long enough now to know when she was actually in danger. She had nothing to fear from this man, from the one they called the Shadow. There were certainly alarming rumors about him, but the same people who whispered them always insisted that he took care of his own—the children of the streets. “No, I’m not so clever,” she countered. “There was barely enough to buy a decent dinner in there.”

She turned away from the dumpster to face him. He was an unusual-looking man but still handsome in his own way, even handsomer when his lips stretched into a smile whiter than anyone living on the streets had any business having. Half of his long hair was dyed a muted shade of red and the other half a grayish-white she couldn’t quite decide if she thought was natural or not. “And what was your mistake, little girl?” he asked slowly.

_I’m not a little girl_ , she almost hissed back, but she managed to bite her tongue for once. The man with the red and white hair was as dangerous as he was charming. Most believed he was the House of the Black and White’s most prized and successful hired gun. There had been a time when Arya would have been willing to pick a fight with just about anyone. There had been a time when she would have kicked him in the shins for daring to call her a little girl and held her makeshift blade to his throat while she taunted him to call her that again. But she was smarter now, more patient, and she knew better than to provoke him.

“I didn’t pick the right target,” she admitted grudgingly. She had been pick-pocketing the wealthy men and women of Oldtown for weeks now with little luck. “Most of the rich use credit cards these days or have people to spend their money for them,” she elaborated. “A bartender or a whore just getting off shift would probably make for better a mark.”

Jaqen smiled a little wider. “See, what did I say? Clever girl. You’re still new to town. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough. And those credit cards aren’t useless, you know.” He moved past her to bend over the edge of the dumpster and pluck the wallet from the trash. “If you know the right way to use them, of course. That is one of the many things I can teach you, little girl.”

_Stop calling me that_. “I’m doing fine on my own, thanks,” she snapped. She said it with all the confidence she could muster, even knowing that it wasn’t entirely true. Sure, she had been surviving for nearly a year on her own now, but that was really all it was, _surviving_. She feared she couldn’t stand huddling in dark, dank alleys at night and snapping pigeon’s necks when she was out of food for much longer.

“Yes, I know, that’s why I’ve come to you, clever girl,” the man said, and she was surprised to find no mockery in his voice. “I run these streets. I know everything that happens on them, and you’ve impressed me, little girl.”

_That’s not my fucking name. My name is—_ She cut off that thought before it could veer into dangerous territory. She wasn’t _that_ girl anymore. She hadn’t been _that_ girl since she tied up a guard, slipped through a hole in the juvenile detention center’s fence, and never looked back. “Just tell me what the fuck it is you want from me.”

The strange man chuckled softly and moved closer to her. She was struck by the way his pale gray-blue eyes seemed to glow in the dying sunlight. “What name is it you now claim as your own, little girl?”

“Cat,” she answered without hesitation. That is the name she gave to her friends on the street, and surely the one he knew by now. “I’m called Cat.”

“Yes, not a bad name. You are clever and quick like a cat, with claws too, I suspect,” he said, moving even closer, so close that she could smell the hint of spearmint gum still on his breath. Instinctively, she took a few steps away from him. She was small and likely to lose in direct combat, but with enough distance, she could outrun nearly anyone. “You may call me Jaqen. Jaqen H’ghar. I think I might have a job for you, Cat, if you wish to take it.”

_A job? Like for money?_ The temptation of being able to sleep in a motel room rather than an alley was enough to pique her interest, but she knew what type of work this man did, and she wasn’t sure if she had fallen that far yet. There was that one boy outside King’s Landing whose fat stomach she had stabbed through, but what choice did she have when his hands started pushing down her trousers? And there was that man in Cider Hall whose throat she had slit open, but what choice did she have when he was pushing her into the trunk of his car and threatening to bring her back to the hell she had barely managed to escape from in the first place? But she had a choice now. _You should run away. Run away now before he can talk you into something you’ll regret._

“What kind of job?”

He smirked. “You are clever enough to know the answer to that, little Cat.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“I will teach you. I will show you how to be a shadow like me. I will show you how to strike fear into even those who fear nothing. I will make it so no one will ever be able to hurt you again.”

_Or hurt the ones I love ever again_. If she had known Jaqen H’ghar when everything fell apart, maybe she could have saved Father, maybe she could have saved Mother and Robb too, maybe she would know where Jon and Bran and Rickon and Sansa were now. _You should run away_ , she thought again, but she remained planted firmly in place. This was how she could finally have her revenge. If she became a shadow like Jaqen, a killer who struck before the victim even knew she was there, the Lannisters would never see her coming.

“And I will feed you, give you a home,” he continued. “I imagine you are sick of what the streets have to offer by now, and I’m a rather excellent cook.”

She felt herself scowl. “You expect me to live with you?” She had been on her own for so long that the thought of sharing a home with someone else again filled her with dread. Plus, she knew what men generally expected in exchange for a warm place to sleep. “Do you think I’m a complete moron? I’m not interested.”

“If you do not stay with me, how will I teach you?” he asked. “There will be other followers with us, and you will have a space of your own where no one will bother you. You have nothing to fear from me, Cat. I will not seek the kind of payment for my generosity I suspect you are afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she spat, backing away from him for a second time. His promise, as sincere as she thought it might be, did nothing to ease her anxiety. She didn’t trust him, just as she didn’t trust the House of Black and White as a whole, but she wasn’t sure what other choice she had. She was tired and hungry and desperate to make the bloody dreams that ran through her mind at night finally come to fruition.

_If I defy him, he’ll chase me off the streets of Oldtown, and I’ll have to start all over again_ , she reasoned. _And if I defy him, I might never be able to make the Lannisters pay for their crimes_. This isn’t what her father would have wanted for her, she knew that. But her father was dead, and this decision was no one’s but hers. “Fine, I’ll come with you, but if you try anything, I swear to the old gods and the new I’ll slice off your dick in your sleep.”

“Ah, well, first someone will have to teach you how to hold that pathetic excuse for a knife you’re hiding in your jacket properly,” he teased, motioning for her to follow him. “Give me a week, and I’ll make sure you’ll actually be able to live up to that threat, little Cat.”

Arya wanted to show him exactly what she could do with her so-called _pathetic excuse for a knife_ , but she managed to suppress the impulse. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the tall buildings of Oldtown when they reached their destination. The house was in shambles with dark, cracked shudders barely hanging on to the graffiti-soaked walls and broken windows. It was nearly as dark inside the walls as it was outside, with only a spattering of candles to illuminate the narrow, twisted hallways. But it was warm, and the faint smell of cooking food baking hung pleasantly in the air.

 

* * *

 

Her stomach was full and her skin was clean and her hair was free of fleas. It was strange to look in the mirror and see the pale, freckled skin she remembered. She almost longed for the layer of filth and the itching of her scalp. Looking back at this girl reminded her of the girl she had left behind. It made her remember what it was like to be Arya Stark.

“Beautiful girl.” Jaqen was leaning in the doorway of her room, staring over her shoulder into the long, cracked mirror. “Who would have guessed?” The way his eyes dragged over her body made her stomach clench. She was older now, nearly nineteen, with a short but lithe body and strong legs, but sometimes she still felt like that gaunt, horse-faced girl who all but disappeared when standing next to sweet, lovely Sansa. “That will be helpful.”

“Helpful?”

“The whores at the Happy Port will be far more likely to believe you actually desire employment there,” Jaqen answered, as his eyes lingered unabashedly on her hips.

The look in his pale eyes made her long for the loose, dusty trousers she had traded in for a new pair of thick, black leggings. “Excuse me?” she snapped, turning to face him. “Like hell you’re going to make me into a whore. That wasn’t the deal.”

“The point, clever girl, is not to actually gain employment, just to give the impression you desire it,” Jaqen said, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Today is the day you will prove your loyalty to me and the House of Black and White. For nearly a month now, you have eaten our food and worn our clothes and slept in our bed and showered with our water and learned from our best. Now, you will prove that you deserve it.”

Cat’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t so foolish as to believe this moment would never come, that the House would never demand something of her in exchange for their generosity, but she hadn’t expected it to come so soon. “But I haven’t learned enough—”

“You’re ready,” Jaqen interrupted. “You are a quick learner, clever girl. Someone has paid a very high sum for a young woman’s life, and you will be the one to take it.” With that, he unfurled his fist and held out a small plastic bag with a white powder inside.

“Are you—?” _Are you sure? Can’t I have just another day? Another week? What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not ready? What has this girl ever done to me?_

“You’re ready. You have eaten our food, clever girl, and the House does not take kindly to having its munificence taken advantage of.”

That made Cat shudder, and she prayed Jaqen hadn’t noticed. She agreed to this arrangement because she desired control over herself and her destiny. She wanted to be able to protect the ones she loved. She wanted to be able to destroy those who had destroyed her family. But she felt that control suddenly slipping through her hands all over again. _Why does it seem like I’m always trading one prison for another?_

 

* * *

 

Bella Rivers was loud and mean and crass, but she was also the prettiest of the women employed at the Happy Port. She was the most assertive and took it upon herself to smack and berate and abuse the girls who failed to bring in enough business or had been cheated out of their dues. It was easy enough to see the rest of the girls despised her, but she brought in the most money, and the others had no choice but to silently suffer her blows and cruel words.

Cat had never liked Bella Rivers, hated her even. She had gone to the Happy Port a few times when she first arrived in Oldtown after hearing they tossed out decent food in their dumpsters after busy nights. As if digging through the whores’ trash for scraps of unwanted food hadn’t been humiliating enough, Bella had appeared in the dark alley with a quiet, bearded man one night and caught her at it. The whore had called her _filth_ and a _stray animal_ before shooing her away from the only dinner available to her.

Her fists clenched at the memory. _I’m not surprised someone wants her dead._ Cat wondered if one of the other whores had gone to the House of Black and White about Bella or if she had just cheated the wrong man. There were rumors Bella sometimes fed men strong wine and picked their pockets before dumping them back out on to the streets. There were other whispers that talked of her blackmailing married men by holding stolen wedding bands hostage until she was given five times her normal rate. From what Cat knew of men, she couldn’t help but think the men that fell victim to her schemes deserved every bit of hell she gave them. She hoped it was one of the abused girls she carried out this deed for.

“What brings you to the Happy Port, love?” Jaqen had said Bella was always up the earliest of the girls to set up for the day, and he been right. They were completely alone. She would kill this girl, and no one would ever even know she was here or why the mistress of the Happy Port had suddenly dropped dead.

When she failed to answer, Bella asked again and grinned at her, all white teeth and dark, midnight blue eyes that seemed to sparkle even in the dim light of the house. She had soft, dark skin and lovely pouted lips painted rose red.

But not everything about Bella was beautiful. There were dark bruises and small, scabbed cuts littering the knuckles of her hands. The violent purple marks made it easier for Cat to convince herself she was doing the right thing. _One of the girls came to the House of Black and White to ask for her life. The girl she drove her fists into._ She was sure of it.

Before speaking, Cat swallowed and reminded herself what was at stake. _Do this, and he’ll teach you to be powerful. Do this, and you’ll finally have your revenge. Don’t do this, and you’ll spend the rest of your life running from him._ “I need a job.”

“A job?” Bella frowned and moved closer to her, abandoning a tray of alcohol on a nearby table. She reached out and pinched Cat’s stomach before letting her eyes roam over her body. “You’re pretty enough, I guess, a bit boyish. Some guys are into that though. And you might be popular with our female patrons. Would you be up for that, love?”

Cat nodded, lowering her head to give the appearance of being shy. “Yes, ma’am. That would be fine. I need the money.”

“Don’t we all?” Bella chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don’t let them know that though. You have to act like you want it, or you won’t make shit, trust me. Our patrons don’t want the whores reminding them how pathetic they are. Think you can do that?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m good at pretending.”

“You been living on the street long?” Cat nodded again. “Then I bet you are,” Bella sighed. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Nan.” It was the name of Arya’s old babysitter, who told exciting stories of war and monsters and heroes. It was the first name that came to mind.

Bella’s eyebrows furrowed. “Nan? No, that won’t do at all. That sounds like some stuffy old grandmother’s name. How about Ruby? Or maybe just Gray? For your eyes, you know? I like Gray. Makes you sound mysterious. Plus, we might already have a Ruby. Can’t remember if I kicked that ungrateful brat out back onto the streets yet.”

“I like Gray.”

“Gray it is then!” Bella exclaimed, clapping her on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you on board, Gray. Ella will get you all set up with a room and tell you the rules later, all right? But, for now, why don’t we take a drink to celebrate, huh? It's never too early, not in my book.”

Arya’s heart began to pound violently in her chest. The white powder felt impossibly heavy in her pocket, like it might sink her down into the floor. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t bring herself to speak, so she simply nodded.

Bella grabbed two glasses of wine from the tray she had been carrying and pressed one into Gray’s hand. “To new friends!” she said cheerily, clinking their glasses together. “And to lots and lots of cash!”

Gray forced herself to smile and mimic the action. The clear liquor was harsh, as it slid across her tongue and down her throat, but she was thankful for it. She hoped it would give her courage to do what came next. “Where would my room be?” The innocent question was all that she needed. Bella turned to point to the stairs, and the white powder was flowing into the blood red wine before the girl could even open her mouth.

As she watched the white fade into red, she worried she might vomit. _Why the hell did you just do that? Does she really deserve this? What has she ever really done to you?_ But when Bella turned back to her, still grinning wide, Cat felt paralyzed under her stare. She imagined her hand rising and smashing the poisoned wine from Bella’s hands, spilling its deadly contents across the floor, but her arms remained limp at her sides. She imagined herself screaming at the girl to stop, to throw the wine away before it was too late, but she remained silent when Bella lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed.

The choking was worse and came faster than she had expected. Almost instantly the color drained from the girl’s pretty face, and she hunched over against the tavern table, spilling the other glasses of wine to the floor. Cat wanted to leave and turn her back on the scene. If she walked away now, maybe someday she could even convince herself that blue-eyed Bella hadn’t actually succumbed to the poison, that she wasn’t actually a murderer. But this is the person Cat of the Streets was, and Arya Stark needed to face her. She wouldn’t look away. She couldn’t look away.

It was a strange thing, to watch the life fade from someone’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

Arya had never had much use for God, not like her mother and Sansa, who had always said their bedtime prayers and dutifully attended church on Sunday mornings. She could understand the comfort that might come from religion, but she didn’t like the idea of depending on some strange man-like being who might or might not exist. It wasn’t in her to believe in things she couldn’t see. It wasn’t in her to rely on anyone but herself.

Even so, when Jaqen H’ghar led her through the tall, ornate doors of the abandoned church to the meet the heads of the House of Black and White, it felt wrong and shameful. Life and Death were the domains of God and God alone that others should never presume upon, that’s what her mother had told her once when she wished her sister dead in a fit of anger. But here were the Masters of Death themselves, those who accepted coin in exchange for life, gathered in front of her upon God’s altar in black and white like priests out of the worst kind of nightmare.

“You have done very well, girl.” The man sitting at the center of the group broke the silence first. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood behind him, her palms open and facing up toward the sky. “You have impressed us with your composure.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he spoke. He was an older man with a plain face and round, dark eyes. There was something kind about his countenance, a quality that made him look like he ought to wear sweater vests and be some little girl’s loving grandfather. “And your loyalty.”

_You should say thank you._ She tried to force the words from her lips, but they remained stuck in her throat. She couldn’t thank him, she couldn’t say anything at all, not when the only thought running through her head over and over again was _what have you done what have you done what have you done what have you done_.

“The House of the Black and White takes its work very seriously. Not all are cut out for such work, and out of those who are, most would rather not. What has drawn you to our work, Cat?” the kindly looking man asked. “And do not lie to us. We will know if you do.”

Her first impulse was to lie anyways, but she believed his threat. “Revenge. I want revenge.” The words hung heavy in the air between them. As many times as she had thought them, Arya thought that might have been the first time she had actually spoken them out loud. She liked the taste of the word on her tongue. _Revenge_. “I want to make people the people who hurt my family suffer. I need to know how to destroy them.”

“And you think we can teach you that?”

“I know you can.”

The kindly man’s lips quirked just slightly, but a true smile never quite formed. “Very well then. Serve us well, Cat, and perhaps we can give you that gift someday.”

“I will, sir,” she declared. “I will serve.”

“Good, because we have another task for you.”

The kindly man waved at Jaqen, who quickly stepped forward and pressed a small photo into Cat’s palm. She glanced down to find a young man, perhaps only a few years older than herself, staring back up at her. His eyes were midnight blue and piercing even in the worn photograph. His skin was dark and his hair even darker. He looked eerily familiar. “Is this—did Bella have a brother? Who is this?”

“This is your target, girl. That is all he is, and all he was ever meant to be, for all men must die.”

 

* * *

 

Jon Snow had never been to Oldtown before. He had dated a girl once who claimed it was one of the most wonderful places in Westeros, but from what he had seen so far, Jon wasn't convinced. It was too hot, too dusty, and too crowded. It made him think of the sands of Meereen where he had been off fighting a losing war for his country for nearly three years.

A familiar pain shot through his hip and up his back, as he limped up the stairs to a bar rather unimaginatively named _The Bar_. He hated stairs. The burn on his hand could be easily hidden with gloves or long sleeves and the scars by his eye made him look tough, but it was impossible to hide the way his left leg lagged pathetically behind him on staircases. But he needed a cold drink more than he needed his dignity at that point.

It was the bullet to his hip that finally got him sent home. He really ought to have been thankful for the wound. There were some men who prayed for an injury like his to send them home to their girlfriends and family and friends. But Jon Snow didn’t have a girlfriend or any family that he could find or any friends who weren’t still risking their lives across the Narrow Sea. The loneliness that had fallen over him that first day at the civilian hospital, when the nurse had asked if she should expect any visitors for him and all he could do was shake his head no, almost made him long for the war, for the brotherhood he left behind there.

No sooner than when the door clicked shut behind him, someone shouted out, “Heroes drink for free here, young man! Pull up a stool.”

Jon resisted the urge to snap that he was no hero. “It was a motorcycle accident,” he lied like he almost always did, waving toward the scars on his face. “So I’ll be paying for my drinks, thanks. Beer, please. Whatever’s on tap. Or, better yet, whatever’s coldest.”

The man chuckled. “Yes, sir. Sorry about that.” The bartender pushed a tall glass toward him when he sat down and smiled. “So what brings you here, son? If you were a local, I think I would’ve seen you around by now. I know everyone around here, you see. And you would’ve known better than to wear all black in this heat.”

Jon smiled sheepishly and pushed off his black denim jacket. “I’m looking for my sister,” he answered. “Sisters, actually.” He took a long gulp of the drink before digging into his back pocket and preparing to recite the same speech he had been making all across the country since he had been released from the hospital. “They both went missing, or ran away rather, a few years ago, and I’m trying to find them.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the man said. “A terrible thing, that.”

Jon nodded solemnly and produced the last picture he and Arya had taken together before everything fell apart. The man grabbed a pair of glasses from his apron and squinted, as Jon pushed the photo toward him.

They were sitting together on the porch swing Ned had built for the Starks' summerhouse on Arbor Island in the photo. Jon’s arm was draped around Arya’s small shoulders, and he was whispering something in her ear that she must have found funny, judging by the rare smile stretched across her face.

He didn’t have a picture of Sansa to show, and it made him feel impossibly guilty every time he approached someone. Absurd as it seemed, he wasn’t sure if he and Sansa had ever taken a picture together during their entire childhood, and she certainly didn’t offer him one of her when he left for boot camp. He couldn’t remember if she had even told him goodbye.

“This is my youngest sister, the one who looks like me. It was taken years before she, well, before she disappeared, so she’d look a bit different now, older, of course, but she’d still—”

The man made a strange noise, almost like a yelp, that cut off Jon’s thought. He pushed the photo back toward Jon as if it might bite him. “What are you playing at, boy? What’s this about? I’ve done nothing to deserve this, you hear? I've told them everything. I do my job, I keep my head down—”

“Sir, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Jon interrupted. “I’m not playing at anything. I’m just looking for my sister.”

“Well, I’d call it a day and stop the search now if I were you, boy. You don’t want to be going near this girl and getting involved in all that.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. After so many shrugs, after so many people looking at him sadly and shaking their heads and insincerely promising to ask their friends, he had almost given up hope on ever finding a lead. “You mean you’ve seen her? You’ve seen Arya?”

“Look, I don’t know any Arya,” the man said, holding up his hands, as if Jon were accusing him of something heinous. He glanced at the photo again and shook his head. “Just let it go, is all I’m saying. It’s not worth it.”

“This is my sister we’re talking about!” Jon shouted, pushing off his stool to get in the man’s face, "Of course it's worth it!" _What the fuck is wrong with this asshole?_ “If you’ve seen her, you need to tell me right now. Tell me where you saw her and—”

“Look, I don’t know anything about it, all right?” the man shouted back, as he brushed away a drop of sweat from his brow. “Never heard of no Arya, all right? So why don’t you just finish your drink and be on your way, young man.”

It took every bit of self-control Jon had not to reach across the counter and punch this fat, shaking man in the jaw. Instead, he took a deep breath, pushed his beer aside, and shoved the photo into the man’s face again. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you? If you’ve seen here, then I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know—”

“He ain’t going to help you,” a woman’s voice interjected. “You’ve scared him, and Marty here is nothing but a coward.”

“I’m not fucking scared, just sick of all the damn questions,” the bartender hissed, before turning back to Jon. “Listen, and listen close, all right? I’m going out back to get some clean glasses, and when I come back, I don’t want to find you here. If you haven’t cleared the fuck out by the time I come back, I’m calling the cops.”

“Calling the cops? For what?”

“For threatening me in my own establishment, that’s what!” With that, the man turned his back to the bar and disappeared into the back, slamming the door behind him.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Jon muttered. The Arya he remembered could be abrasive sometimes, sure, especially when it came to Sansa, but mostly she was friendly and adventurous and fun. She had the ability to make friends anywhere they went, and she always made him laugh. He couldn’t understand how a picture of his smiling sister could provoke such a reaction from anyone.

“I told you, he’s a coward.” The woman sashayed over to him and leaned against the bar. The motion pushed her breasts together, and Jon couldn’t keep his eyes from falling to the top of her low-cut dress. “Let me see what's got him all worked up.”

Jon’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. They were a pretty brown, light and almost the color of honey like Ygritte’s had been. “It’s just a picture of my sister,” he sighed, holding it out to her. “I haven’t been able to find her. It’s been years, and I just want to find her.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “ _This_ is your sister?” She looked up at him again and narrowed her eyes. “Ah, now I can see the resemblance,” she said softly. “The eyes.”

_Gray eyes. Dad’s eyes._ “So you know her then? You’ve seen her?”

“I wouldn’t say I know her exactly,” the woman said. “But I’ve seen her, yeah, briefly, once. She used to come here for leftovers some nights. Why don’t you come with me? Marty lets me keep a room above the bar. It’s got a back entrance, so we can sneak you out without him going crazy.” Jon followed her without thinking. It was the closest he had been in months to tracking down one of his sisters, and his heart was racing.

The room was small but elegantly decorated and smelled of a sweet perfume. “This is nice.”

“Marty likes only the best for his customers. Well, maybe not you,” she teased, smiling over her shoulder at him.

Jon felt his entire body tense. “You mean—?”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t going to jump you or anything,” the woman laughed. “I’m a professional, and I’ve got the feeling you don’t have much money. At least not enough to afford a girl like me.”

Jon thought those were awfully big words from a woman who sold her body above an establishment called The Bar, but he forced himself to smile and say, “That’s probably true.”

She grinned at him and brushed a wave of silky black hair behind her shoulder. “It’s a shame. It’s not often I have someone as handsome as you in my room.”

Blood rushed to his cheeks, and he barely resisted the urge to drop his eyes down to his shoes. “Look, my sister—”

“Right,” she said, looking at the photo again. “Definitely your sister,” she mumbled to herself. “Those eyes…”

“Do you know where she’s been living?”

“She’d be dead if I did. Or I would be.”

Jon’s heart nearly stopped at that. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve got nothing against her, she was nice enough the time I met her, a little standoffish, but all the kids on the street are like that. But if the House is looking for someone, I’m sure as hell not going to play dumb about it. Luckily, I don’t know shit. No one does. Your sister made herself a very powerful enemy yesterday, ran off with some boy that had been marked, or so I hear it. They’ll kill her when they find her.”

“Marked? Kill her? I don’t know what the hell you’re even saying.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

When Jon shook his head, the woman clucked her tongue and looked at him with the kind of pity he hadn’t seen since he left the hospital. “All I know is that you're not the only one looking for this girl,” she said, handing the photo back to him, “And that she was once called Cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What went down with Arya will be revealed in her next chapter. Thank you for reading!


	3. Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destiny. Sansa Stark had always believed in the power of that word and had always trusted she was meant for greatness.

_Destiny. Sansa Stark had always believed in the power of that word and had always trusted she was meant for greatness. As a girl, she excelled at most everything she tried. She was creative and graceful and charming and intelligent. If not for her struggles with mathematics, she might have even been at the top of her class._

_But, most importantly, she was beautiful. Bright blue eyes, hair the dark, rich red of copper, and skin like porcelain she had obsessively kept protected from the sun lest she be covered in unsightly freckles like Arya. A powerful man would fall in love with her someday, a politician like her father she had hoped, and she would be the perfect wife to him. She was sure of it. Nearly every choice she made was in anticipation of this great future._

_The people of Westeros would love her. She would choose charities to support, and they would think her kind. She would offer advice to her husband, just as her mother had done for her father, and they would think her clever and good. She would smile and wave and kiss the tops of children’s heads, and they would think her beautiful. She would champion a cause, and when it transformed into law, they would think her powerful._

_The perfect wife. The adoring mother. The benevolent ruler. It was her destiny. It was what she was meant for._

_That dream was all but lost to her now, even if she had still wanted it. Her hair looked like mud, her eyes were dark and haunted, and her skin—her beautiful, perfect skin—was marred with the freckles she had once feared and gruesome scars that danced around her spine like the flames that had left them there._

_She imagines a different destiny for herself now, but she knows better than to cling to it too tightly. In life, there are no chosen ones. There are no great plans. There are no set paths. Destiny is only a word we use to comfort ourselves when things don’t go as we planned, a foolish assurance we offer ourselves, so we can continue believing everything happens for a reason._

_But there was no reason for her family to be killed and scattered, no divine plan in motion and no great destiny materializing for the ones who made it out alive. It was thrust upon them by the cruel randomness of the world and by the unfathomable, uncontainable greed of the Lannisters. It left them with nothing, and none of them would rise from the ashes better people._

_She used to wonder how the Lannisters could do such a thing to a family like theirs. They were good people who were kind to others, who kept their heads down and followed the rules. She used to wonder how they could bear to even look at themselves in the mirror after the news of her father’s death. She used to wonder how Cersei Lannister could go on living with the monster that lived inside of her._

_But maybe it wasn’t so simple as all that, as Sansa Stark desperately wanted it to be. Just as there are no chosen ones, perhaps there are no monsters. Maybe Cersei Lannister saw herself as the woman Sansa once imagined she’d be, powerful and famous and adored, and maybe she couldn’t stand to let Robert Baratheon and his wandering eyes ruin that for her. Maybe Tywin Lannister’s golden daughter believed it to be her destiny to rise to greatness on a ladder of Stark bones. Maybe, in Cersei’s story, she was the hero._

_Alayne Stone looked forward to proving her wrong._

 

* * *

 

Three days. Three days had gone by since Cersei Lannister’s celebration, and not one of the Lannisters had contacted her. It didn’t surprise her not to hear from Jaime, not after the way he backed away from her, but she had at least expected Tyrion to show up at her door with a bottle of wine and an invitation to see the Lannisters’ famous library.

Instead, there was only silence.

_If they haven’t come to you yet, then you have failed to make an impression, Alayne._ That’s what Petyr would say, and that’s why she hadn’t told him yet. She couldn’t bear his disappointment. It always made her feel like her insides were crumbling away.

Aside from Theon’s jarringly frequent visits, her only other companion since the party had been her mother’s box. Looking through its contents was a compulsion. She knew every word inside of it, both written and recorded, by heart, but she couldn’t stop herself from freeing it from the floorboards beneath her couch at least once a day.

It was her mother’s last letter to Robb that commanded her attention today. The date on the top suggested it could have been the last letter she ever wrote.

 

_My Dearest Robb—_

 

The greeting always caused Sansa’s stomach to twist. It unearthed an old, shameful fear that Robb really was her mother’s dearest, or Bran, or Rickon. Even Arya had demanded more of their mother’s attention with her unruly behavior. Sansa was the pliant one, the one her parents could always count on to do what she was told. She was the afterthought.

The letter made her remember how Mother would only discuss her lawsuit against the Lannisters with Robb after Father died. She remembered how they would disappear into the study for what seemed like days at a time. She remembered how everyone had seemed to forget about her—how Arya was too busy punching people to so much as look her way, how Jon returned to his self-imposed exile in the war in the East as soon as the funeral ended, how Mother and Robb kept insisting she wouldn’t understand what they were doing, and how all of the people she thought were her friends suddenly seemed to find her invisible.

The memories hurt, but they weren’t the worst of it. No, worst of all, the letter made her hate herself for feeling jealous it didn’t begin with her name instead of her dead brother’s. It made her hate herself for resenting the mother she missed so badly sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe under the weight of the grief.

 

_I’m writing this to you today because I’m afraid I will no longer be here to write at all come morning. Someone has been leaving messages on my phone, warning me to give up my fight against the Lannisters or else. Their threats become more violent with each day, but I will never stop this fight, not until I win or I die. Please don’t be mad that I kept this from you. I couldn’t bear to add any more stress to your life._

_First, I must tell you that I am sorry. I am so sorry. I wanted so desperately to be a better mother to you all, to my sweet, beautiful children. After your father was murdered, I should have taken you all as far away from King’s Landing as I could manage. I know that now. We should have retreated to the Riverlands to live with my father, away from these horrible people who only wish to profit from our misery._

_Your father and I wanted to give you the entire world. Winterfell was meant to be yours someday, but they have stolen that from you like they have stolen everything else. Please know that I do this all for you. I’m fighting them to take back what is rightfully yours, what your father and I fought to give you._

_If I die, the fight falls to you, my dear son. Everything I’ve discovered since I began this battle can be found in this box. Inside, you will find proof of your father’s innocence and proof that the Lannisters and their conspirators deliberately sought to destroy him, to frame him for murder and theft, and to set fire to his good name._

_Part of me prays you can use its contents to find a way to exonerate your father and exact revenge upon those who have wronged us so heinously. But most of me hopes you throw this box and all of its secrets into the ocean outside our old beach house and run away forever. Most of me hopes you will forget you were ever a Stark and try to find happiness away from all of this across the Narrow Sea._

_Whatever you decide, Robb, you must take care of Sansa and Arya and Rickon and my poor, sweet Bran. They didn’t choose this war._

_It is your destiny to look after them, Robb. It is your destiny to keep the Starks together._

 

“It is your destiny,” she read the words aloud and felt her hands clench around the thin paper. “It is your destiny.”

 

_I love you with all my heart—_

_Mom_

 

She crushed the paper under her fists and bowed her head. Her chest tightened, and it felt like thousands of tiny needles were stabbing into her arms all at once. Her breathing quickened and her heart pounded against her ribcage. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought she was having a heart attack.

But she did know better. The panic attacks were what Dr. Pycelle used as an excuse to keep her locked away at St. Helena’s for so long. They were what he used as an excuse to shove pills down her throat that made the entire world look gray. _You’re a danger to yourself like this, Sansa. I only want to keep you safe._

“Breathe,” she whispered to herself, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose and hanging her head between her knees, like the nurses used to instruct her to do. “Just fucking breathe. You’re not dying. Just breathe.”

_Who cares if you're dying? Would it even matter? I’m the last one Mother would’ve wanted to take up this fight._ The thought haunted her each time she read the letter. It was Robb who Mother had trusted to keep the family together and create a world where the Starks could do more with their lives than simply survive. If she had known Robb was destined to die alongside her, she would have wanted strong, willful Arya or thoughtful Bran or even wild little Rickon to take his place. Anyone but gentle, silly, _weak_ Sansa.

The letter was in the fireplace before she even realized her hands had moved. The edges blackened and crumbled. It took only seconds for the paper that had haunted her for so long to fade to ashes. Destroying her mother’s words should have made her feel sick, but instead her breathing started to return to normal. Feeling began to flood back into her arms, and the coils in her chest started to unwind. It felt good to be free of those words and the doubt that came with them.

_My dearest Robb. It is your destiny._

She stared into the fire and remembered the way it felt when flames licked at her back when her foster home caught fire in the night. She remembered the smoke filling up her nostrils and constricting her throat. She remembered looking up at the door in front of her but not having the strength to reach out for it. _Their deaths were peaceful._ That’s what the firemen had promised her when they told her that her mother and brother were dead. _They didn’t feel anything._ To this day, she wished she could believe that.

A scratch at the door made her jump. Her breath caught, and she forgot all about the letter crumbling in the fireplace. Theon had an annoying habit of just throwing open the door without preamble, and Jeyne Poole always announced herself with a quiet, dainty knock Alayne would recognize anywhere. This was different. This was new.

She tucked the box back inside of its hiding place, quickly checked her makeup in the mirror, and forced herself to walk calmly toward the front door. As she took each measured step, she rehearsed potential greetings for whomever could be at the door—for Petyr, for Jaime, for Tyrion, for Margaery, for Cersei Lannister herself. The words were still running furiously through her mind when she pushed the door open and found a small, light gray husky standing on her porch. It was looking up at her with the most remarkable blue eyes she had ever seen.

She knew this dog. She would never forget her. “Lady?”

At the sound of her name, the husky bounded up on to her hind legs and pressed her front paws into Alayne’s stomach. She let out a low, melancholy whine that made Sansa’s heart ache. “Lady,” she said again, wrapping her arms around the dog’s neck and pressing her cheek to its head. “My sweet Lady. You found me, girl.”

Running her hands through Lady’s soft fur filled her with the kind of happiness she hadn’t felt since her father was arrested. When she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was a little girl again. That Father and Mother were sitting on the porch swing just behind them, watching as she tumbled around with the new puppy they had given her for her birthday.

“Don’t let anyone see you crying like that. Might get them thinking.”

Alayne hadn’t even realized she was crying. “I have allergies,” she snapped at Theon, quickly disentangling herself from Lady, prompting the dog to let out another whine. She pointedly ran her sleeves over her wet eyes and glared at him. “What do you want?”

“Is this who I think it is?” A crooked grin stretched across Theon’s face, as he reached out to scratch behind Lady’s ears. “God, she still looks like a puppy.”

“Well, real ladies age gracefully,” Alayne chuckled, as Lady licked the back of her hand. “I can’t believe she managed to find me.”

“Dogs have their ways, man’s best friend and all.”

“I can’t believe he kept her all these years.”

Theon smirked. “I can. Tyrell was always dreadfully sentimental.”

Sansa didn’t like the way Theon said _sentimental_ , like it was something Willas ought to be ashamed of. Her first instinct was to defend him, to remind Theon it wasn’t a bad thing for someone to be so good. It was the same instinct she felt when the newspapers started calling him a reclusive cripple and lamenting that he would never live up to the rest of his family’s glory. Then she remembered what he had let his family do to hers, and the instinct faded away.

“Still,” she sighed, “I thought he would’ve given her away.”

“Maybe if it had been anyone else’s dog.”

Alayne didn’t know what he meant by that, and she decided not to ask. “Well, we should return her. He’s probably worried.”

“She’s _your_ dog.”

_No, she’s Sansa’s dog. Alayne doesn’t have time for a dog._ “She’s Willas Tyrell’s dog,” she corrected, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t say foolish things like that, not out here.”

Theon shrugged and followed her and Lady inside. “You all right, Layne?”

That’s what he had taken to calling her lately. It stung every time. It had been so nice to hear her real name again, but she knew allowing him to use it, even when they were alone, was too dangerous to risk. “I’m fine. Why?”

He shrugged again; it was one his many habits that annoyed the hell out of her. Nearly thirty-years-old, and he still couldn’t commit to a goddamn thing. “Don’t know. You don’t look okay. Not everything’s a trick question.”

There was always a quiet desperation running beneath Theon’s words when they spoke. She knew what he wanted from her when he asked if she was okay. He wanted her to say no. He wanted her to say she was broken, so they could talk about Robb Stark. He wanted to reminisce about his best friend with someone who had actually known and loved him too, but even the idea of such a conversation made her impossibly anxious. Saying Robb’s name out loud was too much for her to even consider. “Well, I _am_ fine,” she lied. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

“You are? Well, that’s a lovely change of pace, isn’t it?” There was that stupid, crooked smile again. She hated that about him, too.

“ _Mm_ , unfortunately I need your help.”

 

* * *

 

Alayne and Theon stopped by the Highgarden Estate on their way to lunch in the town center. It was more magnificent than she remembered it being as a child. Vines covered with roses of every conceivable color crawled up the gray walls of the seaside mansion. There were even more roses lining the grounds, more roses than she had ever seen in one place. The smell was overpowering and made Alayne’s eyes water, but the sight was mesmerizing.

Theon sneezed loudly behind her. “Dear god, I bet this is what my hell looks like.”

Alayne snorted. “The Tyrells don’t suffer from allergies like us mere mortals, I suppose.” She ran her fingers through Lady’s soft fur once more before reaching out to press the doorbell.

The soft, pleasant sound of wind chimes rang out. Before the ringing even finished, Margaery Tyrell was at the door in a flirty green sundress that showed off more of her long legs than Alayne thought decent. “Lady!” she trilled, holding open her arms. When the dog didn’t move to meet her, Margaery rolled her eyes and let her arms fall back to her sides. “You found her! My brother Willas has been worried absolutely sick over this stupid dog, you know. It’s first time she’s ever run off. Where did you find her?”

Alayne felt herself flinch at _this stupid dog_ and hoped Margaery hadn’t noticed. “At my house, actually. She was sitting on my porch, enjoying the sun.”

Margaery’s smile faltered for a moment, and Alayne knew exactly what she was thinking. It was satisfying to know the memory of Sansa Stark still filled Margaery with something that looked an awful lot like guilt. “Ah, well, that makes sense, I’m afraid. Lady’s old owner lived there.”

“Did she belong to the Merryweathers?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Margaery giggled. “Those two could barely take care of their own child, let alone a dog. Hired five nannies so they never had to spare a thought for anyone but themselves. They’d have to hire five more to ensure poor old Lady here didn’t starve to death.”

Alayne forced herself to laugh along with her. Even knowing Jeyne Poole for a year hadn’t quite prepared her for the Arbor’s particularly cruel brand of gossip. “Oh, I see. She belonged to the Starks then?”

Margaery grimaced. “You’ve heard of them then?”

“Who hasn’t?” Theon droned. “It seems people around here never tire of talking about the poor, dead Starks.”

Margaery glared at him over Alayne’s shoulder. “Well, it’s a rather horrid story, isn’t it? Can you blame people?” she hissed at Theon, before turning her attention back to Alayne. “Willas and I were actually friends with one of the daughters, if you can believe it. We never could have imagined what awful secrets that family was hiding. They seemed so nice. But you never do know with people, I guess. Even after everything that happened, Willas had a soft spot for the girl. He took her dog in when she was taken away.”

“Taken away?”

A blankly agreeable sort of look passed over Margaery’s face. “The poor thing,” she cooed softly. “All the stress of her father’s trial left her a bit fragile. She was never strong to begin with, and it was all too much for her. She needed help. I hope she’s doing better now.”

_Like you give a shit._ “Well, that was very kind of you to take care of her dog,” Alayne said, forcing herself to smile.

“Kind of Willas, you mean,” Margaery corrected. “He’s too sentimental for his own good sometimes.” Margaery reached out to grab hold of Lady’s collar, a shocking green material that was embroidered with golden roses, but Lady whined and pressed the length of her body against Alayne’s leg. “Huh, well look at that. She likes you.”

Alayne placed her palm against the top of Lady’s head and willed herself not to start crying again. “I do love animals.”

“Ah, then you would get along swimmingly with my brother. He keeps all sorts of animals in the stables. Thank goodness for my mother’s roses, or the smell would be intolerable. You rather charmed him the other night, you know.”

“Charmed who?”

“My brother, Willas!” she exclaimed, resting her hand on Alayne’s forearm like they were old friends. “He doesn’t tell me a thing anymore, thinks I gossip too much, but he told Garlan all about meeting you on the beach the other night. He was quite taken by you, and my brother’s not one to be taken easily. It’s been so long since he’s been on a proper date, but I think you two would be just lovely together. What do you think?”

At that moment, Alayne realized Margaery Tyrell had transformed into an exceedingly practical woman in the years they had been apart. The seemingly innocent suggestion was solving two problems at once—keeping the new girl away from Joffrey Baratheon and pairing her loner brother up with a wealthy, young woman. Garlan had married an obscenely wealthy hotel heiress years ago, Margaery was expected to have a ring from Joffrey soon glimmering on her finger, and Loras was still young and beautiful enough for the media to be enamored with his bachelor lifestyle. But Willas had reached thirty still single and with little to show for it; well, little that mattered to a family like the Tyrells anyways.

“Oh, I'm not sure,” Alayne demurred, hoping to appear bashful rather than annoyed. “I haven’t dated anyone in a long time.” It was one of the first truths she had told.

“Well, that’s hard to believe. Did you have a bad breakup?”

“You could say that.”

“We’ve all gone through those, haven’t we?” she sighed, touching Alayne's arm again. “You know what they say about kissing frogs and all that. Keep him in mind at least, though, will you? And don’t believe what the papers say about him. There’s no one kinder or smarter than my brother. Once he hears you’re the one who returned his precious Lady, he’ll be just about in love with you already.”

Alayne promised she would consider it before saying she and Theon really needed to get going to make their reservation. “Oh, don’t let me keep you!” They nodded and walked away, but hadn’t taken more than three steps when Margaery called out to them again. “Alayne, forgive me, I completely forgot to tell you how lovely you looked in the style section. Whoever is running the Arbor Post these days has excellent taste.”

The anger and fear she felt when she had discovered the enormous picture of her and her green dress in the Sunday paper came rushing back to her. “Thank you, I appreciate that. But no one looked more stunning than you.” Margaery smiled at that and waved goodbye again before pulling a whining Lady inside.

Alayne stared at the door for a moment, thinking about how right she had felt with her face buried in Lady’s coat. “She’s not your dog, remember?” Theon said quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. And I’m fine,” she added, even though Theon hadn’t asked. “No one much likes you here, do they?”

“They think I’m a freak.”

“Imagine that.”

Theon laughed. “And when did you learn the fine art of sarcasm?”

“When I stopped being a lady.”

Theon draped his arm around her shoulder at that. As a girl, a boy like Theon being so close to her would have been a mortifying experience. He was handsome enough, but he was not the type of boy girls like her should ever be interested in. He was new money and crude and obnoxious and too openly sexual. But she liked the feeling of being close to him now, of being close to anyone other than Petyr for once. It made her feel safer than she had felt in years.

“I can tell you’re worried about the picture, but don’t be. No one’s going to recognize you. You look nothing like Sansa Stark.”

_Funny, I don’t feel anything like her either._

 

* * *

 

The air smelled like the sea. It was the best thing about the restaurant—better than the fancy food, and the glimmering silverware, and the flower vases made of gold. Father took her here for her birthday once, and she had felt like a princess when the waiters dressed in black bowties had placed a frosted lemoncake made special for her on the table.

“The Dock is where all the bigwigs come for lunch around here,” Theon explained, as he slurped up an oyster in a way that made Alayne’s cheeks feel hot. “He’ll be here soon.”

“He better be.” Alayne speared one of the strawberry slices in her salad but didn’t bring the fork to her mouth. She was too busy glancing around the rooftop dining room for any sign of her father’s former friend.

“These people are obnoxious, aren’t they?” Theon leaned back in his chair and guffawed so loudly the woman at the table next to them flinched. “That guy over there is eating a hamburger with a knife and fork. With a goddamned knife and fork.”

“Says the man who ordered champagne and oysters for lunch.”

“They’re aphrodisiacs, my dear. And how else would I flaunt my wealth?” Theon slurped at another one, and Alayne looked determinedly anywhere but his mouth. “What do you want with this particular asshole anyways?”

“He’s guilty, and he needs to be punished,” she said simply. “Just like the rest of them.”

Just then, Roose Bolton, looking exactly as she remembered him, came walking through the door onto the rooftop. The suit he wore was plain and practical, but she could tell it must have cost thousands. His hair was combed neatly to one side and was still jet black despite his age. The dark color only made his pale eyes, like murky chips of ice, that much more unsettling.

Theon visibly shuddered at the sight of him and began studying his food. “Are you sure about getting involved with that man, Layne? The Boltons are a dangerous lot.”

“I told you, he’s guilty. Now hug me.”

“Hug you? I think that might just be the champagne talking, love.”

“Shut up, and make it look good.” They stood up in time with each other, and Alayne wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her a little closer than entirely necessary and then grinned down at her. “I’ve got the check, babe,” he whispered into her ear, waving toward the food. “Good luck revenging.”

She smiled, as he pressed a lingering kiss to the apple of her cheek.

After straightening out her dress, she walked slowly toward the door. She purposely let her heels click loudly against the ground, calling as much attention to herself as she could manage. Just as she was about to reach for the doorknob, a large hand landed between her shoulder blades.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Roose Bolton loomed over her. He was taller than she remembered, and it took all the composure she could muster not to recoil from him and his horrible eyes. Instead, she flashed him her prettiest smile—the one that made most men melt. “No, I don’t believe we have. I’m new here. My name is Alayne Stone.”

“New here, and yet you’ve already been in the Post and have made some rather powerful friends.” He glanced over to where Theon was still throwing oysters back in between gulps of champagne. “I suppose your uncle has something to do with that. Petyr talks about you often. Did he introduce you to Greyjoy?”

“Oh dear, no. To be honest, I don’t think they like each other much,” she said with a giggle. “No, I’ve done business with Theon in the past.”

“Business? A young lady like you?”

“A young lady with a lot of money,” she corrected gently. “More money than my uncle, much to his chagrin. And you are—?”

“Roose Bolton,” he said. “The President of Dreadfort Investments. We’ve been trying to land your uncle and Greyjoy over there for years. He’s not one to part with his money though.”

“Neither of them are, unfortunately. But there’s no gain without any risk, right? Theon’s purse strings and lips always loosen when the champagne starts flowing though.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she laughed, pretending as if she had had a bit too much champagne herself. “Don’t mind me. No harm in a few secrets between close friends, right? We’ve known each other a long time. Anyways, it was lovely to meet you, Mr. Bolton. It’s always such a pleasure meeting Uncle Petyr’s friends.”

She turned to walk away, but he caught her arm before she made it far. The press of his fingertips made her skin crawl. “Miss Stone, how would you feel about taking a meeting with me and talking about your options? It won’t take up too much of your time, and it would be my honor to make a savvy young lady like yourself even richer.”

He used to talk to her father like this, always making promises and assuring him he could put his money to better use. She never liked when he came over. He talked too slowly and too quietly, and he never smiled. What others saw as composure, she could only think of as coldness.

“Of course, I’m always looking for creative things to do with my money. Just letting it sit there would be so dreadfully boring,” she said, as she dug through her clutch. “Why don’t you take my card and give me a call sometime? I’d be interested in hearing your proposal, Mr. Bolton.”

 

* * *

 

Roose Bolton’s office was just as exciting as his suits. The walls were the white of hospital corridors and completely devoid of decoration. There wasn’t a single picture on his desk. In fact, the most personal item he seemed to own was a nameplate that read _Roose Bolton, President_.

“It was good of you to come, Miss Stone,” he said, leaning forward on his desk. “Stone is an interesting name. Your father’s, I assume?”

"Yes, my biological father. He died when I was very young."

“I'm sorry to hear that," he said, but the tone of his voice didn't change at all. "It's funny, I never knew your uncle had any family until you arrived.”

She didn’t like the way he said that, as if he were trying to catch her in a lie. “Well, we're not related by blood. He had just the one sister, my foster mother, and they were estranged, I’m afraid. She talked to me about him a great deal, but he hadn't even known of her death before I tracked him down. But I can’t imagine that’s what you want to talk about.”

“Of course, I apologize. I’ve gone over the financial information you sent over, and we have many excellent options for you to look over today.” He tapped a red folder that had been set neatly in front of her seat. “I think you’ll be pleased with what you see, Miss Stone.”

“Please, call me Alayne. And that’s wonderful to hear.” Alayne smiled and then made a show of digging through her purse. “There’s actually a particular company I’m very interested in investing with.” She pulled out a business card and slid it across the desk toward him. “Cerwyn Communications. Have you heard of it?”

“Cerwyn? Yes, of course I have.” His brow furrowed, as he ran a finger over the card. “But I can’t say I would recommend such an investment. All signs are pointing to Theon Greyjoy partnering with Harlaw Communications to debut his new voice recognition technology. The CEO is Greyjoy’s uncle. The stock is selling fast, and it would be best to invest now before—”

“I’d still like to invest with Cerwyn, I think,” Alayne interrupted. A smirk spread across her lips, an expression she had stolen from Petyr. “A little bird suggested I take the risk, if you know what I mean.”

Roose Bolton’s eyes grew wide at that. It was the most emotional response from him that she had ever witnessed. “I’m not sure that I do. Miss Stone, are you—?”

“ _Alayne_ , please. And it would be wise if I didn’t say anything more, don’t you think?” She almost winked to drive her point home but stopped herself. _Don’t oversell it. Let him draw his own conclusions and think himself clever._ “All I’ll say is sometimes it helps to have powerful friends. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

At some point, his hands had splayed across the desk between them. His fingertips were pressing down into the dark wood like he was holding on for his life. Silence passed over them for a few long moments. She could practically see the thoughts racing through his head. He was recalling the way Theon had embraced her goodbye at lunch, the way his arms had snaked around her waist and the way he had leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. When Roose’s lips twitched upwards in the barest of smiles, she knew she had won.

“Sign a contract with us today, Alayne, and I’d be happy to make such an investment for you.” One of his hands lifted from the table and began to reach for a drawer.

“And I’m sure I would thank you for it, but I fear I suffer from some commitment issues, Mr. Bolton,” Alayne answered, freezing his hand just as it landed on the handle. “Would you mind if I took a day or two to look over your proposal?” she asked, holding up the red folder. “My uncle hates when I make these kinds of decisions without at least pretending to consult him first.”

The small smile vanished, and Bolton’s customary coolness returned. “Of course, Alayne, I didn’t mean to rush you,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “Why don’t you set up a time to come back in later this week with my secretary?”

“I'll do just that.” Alayne stood up from the chair, straightened out her skirt, and tucked the red folder into her purse. Roose stood as well and offered his hand to her. Her stomach churned, but she shook it and grinned even wider. “This was enlightening. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. And this—this will all stay between us, yes?”

“Your confidentiality is always guaranteed at Dreadfort Investments, Alayne.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Have a good day, Mr. Bolton.”

 

* * *

 

The whiskey burned her throat and made her eyes water. Sometimes she considered ordering a sweeter drink, one of the brightly colored cocktails Jeyne favored, but Alayne didn’t drink cocktails. By herself, Alayne drank whiskey neat, and in the company of others, she drank the most expensive and pretentious wine she could find. It was an assertion of power to order the most expensive item on the menu. Petyr had taught her that.

“Another, please.” She pushed the empty glass toward the bartender. It was a new girl waiting on her tonight, with flaming red hair and a dark bruise on her jaw. Alayne suspected she was one of the girls from the other business Petyr ran out of the basement of his bar.

“Of course, hon.”

“I’ll get it for her.” Petyr emerged from the back and rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take the orders for those men who just came in? We don’t keep our customers waiting at The Mockingbird, remember?”

“Of course, Mr. Baelish, right away. I’m sorry.” The girl lowered her head and scurried off toward the back.

“She’s a pretty one.”

Petyr cocked an eyebrow at her before turning to fix them both drinks. “She does well enough, I suppose. Redheads are always popular.”

Alayne lifted the drink to her lips as soon as he set it down, so he wouldn’t see her grimace. She preferred to ignore what went on below the bar, and he usually was content to let her. When she had drained nearly the entire glass, she set it back down. “I have a surprise for you.”

Petyr grinned wide and leaned over the bar toward her. “And what’s that, my sweet Alayne?”

“Did you happen to see Theon Greyjoy on the news today?” He had done exactly as she had expected he would without her even needing to ask. _To the person who leaked that I would be partnering with Cerwyn Communications, thank you for the amusement and for the satisfaction that will now come from announcing my plans to work with Harlaw Communications on this project._

“I did. I’m amazed anyone was surprised. Harlaw is his uncle for God's sake.”

“I had a meeting with Roose Bolton yesterday. I might have hinted Theon was going with Cerwyn instead of Harlaw.”

Petyr pushed back on the bar and studied her face for a moment. “And you’re telling me he just believed you?”

“Seeing me drinking champagne at The Dock with Theon for lunch might have helped,” she answered. “Or maybe I just have one of those faces.”

“Oh, my dear. You are a magnificent creature.” His eyes locked on hers, and a shiver shot down her spine. “You’ve done well, Alayne,” he added, leaning close to her again. He pressed his lips softly against the corner of her jaw just below her ear. These kisses, that were somehow both innocent and entirely improper at the same time, were a liberty he usually only allowed himself when they were alone. It would not do well if anyone were to see him treating his supposed niece in such a way, but it caused her some pride to have made him drop his guard for once.

When he pulled away, he left his hand to linger over hers. His thumb drew small circles around the top of her wrist, and she felt goosebumps break out across her skin. His touches were something she had grown more accustomed to than something she actually enjoyed, but her entire body felt electric at the thought of Roose Bolton scrambling to save his crumbling empire.

“Rumor has it that Bolton invested nearly all of his most important clients’ money in Cerwyn,” Alayne said, glancing up to see Theon’s announcement playing on the television again. She twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “They’ll lose everything, and I bet he’s trying to cover it up as we speak. Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”

Petyr nodded slowly, his fingers pressing deeper into her skin. “I happen to know a few of those clients personally. I believe I have some calls to make, Alayne. If you’ll excuse me, love?”

Alayne allowed herself a deep breath and felt the muscles in her jaw relax when Petyr moved his hand away from hers and disappeared into the back again. She grasped her drink but felt her cell phone vibrate in her purse before she could take another sip.

It was a number she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

“Is this Alayne? It’s Jaime. Jaime Lannister.”

The glass fell from her other hand and cracked, spilling its dark contents out across the bar top. “Hi, Jaime. Yes—yes, this is Alayne.”

“I’m sorry to be calling out of the blue like this. I got your number from Cersei’s assistant. She’s a friend of yours, right?”

“Jeyne? Yes, a good friend."

“It’s a small word.” A long pause followed that thought. She tapped her nails against the counter, unsure if he was waiting on her to fill the silence. “So, I suppose I should say _why_ I’m calling, right?” he continued, with a quiet laugh. “We’re throwing a birthday party for Tyrion tomorrow evening, and I know he’d like it if you came.”

She felt her stomach sink. _He’s calling for his brother._ Tyrion wasn’t the Lannister she wanted, but she wasn't in a position to be picky. “I’d love to come.”

“Yeah? Perfect then. He’ll be thrilled to show the library to someone who might actually give a shit about it. Everything starts at eight, and don’t worry about a gift.”

“Thank you for the invite, Jaime. I look forward to it.”

“Perfect then,” he said again, followed by an oddly nervous sort of chuckle. “If you need any details, your friend Jeyne is planning the thing. Or feel free to give me another call. I’ll see you tomorrow, Alayne.”

“Sure, see you tomorrow. Bye, Jaime.”

She dropped the phone back into her purse and let out a long breath. Tomorrow night she would be in the Lannisters' mansion. They would welcome her inside of their home, having no suspicion of her true identity. Maybe this was her destiny after all.

 

* * *

 

They were girls. He couldn’t tell at first, but the closer he got to them, the more obvious it became. They were pretty girls—one tall and willowy with long hair the color of a sunset and one small but powerful with short hair the color of night.

The girls were covered in blood. It was congealing in their hair. It was soaking their clothes, dripping down their faces, pooling around their eyes, and coating their hands. There were no wounds on their bodies that he could see, but the blood was everywhere.

They were impossibly still. For a moment, he wondered if they were statues. But even with their shadowy eyes and unmoving limbs, there was something incredibly alive about the pair of them. He could see the slight tremble in their fists, and he could feel the rage radiating from them.

_I know you. I remember you._ He tried to tell them, but his lips wouldn’t move. _I understand. I want to help._ He tried to reach out to them, but his arms hung limp and useless at his sides.

A serpent broke the stillness of the scene in front of him. The creature’s scales were a metallic black and its eyes matched the color of the blood. It wrapped around the taller girl’s ankle and traveled swiftly up her body until it had wrapped the length of itself around her neck. It pulled tighter and tighter, but the girl did not move to stop it.

Loud caws broke the silence of the scene in front of him. Nearly a dozen crows flew from somewhere behind him and landed on the shorter girl. They were fearsome creatures at almost the same size as the girl’s head and even blacker than her hair. They screamed and pecked their razor beaks into her skin, as if she were carrion.

_Stop!_ He wanted to scream at the serpent. He wanted to tear it away before it forced the last bit of breath from the girl’s lungs.

_She’s not dead!_ He wanted to scream at the crows. He wanted to scare them away before they destroyed the girl’s pale, beautiful skin.

He closed his eyes, and they were gone—the girls, the serpent, the crows. He closed his eyes, and a sharp scream replaced the cawing of the crows. All he could feel were hands gripping tightly to his shoulders. Someone was shaking him. Someone was begging him to wake up.

“Bran? Bran? Can you hear me?”

_Bran._ That was his name. That’s what they used to call him.

“Bran? Please, stop screaming. Bran, can you hear me?”

It was only then he realized the scream he was hearing was coming from him. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to stop. With all the strength he could muster, he then forced his eyes to open. He wanted to see the girl shaking his shoulders. He hoped desperately she was one of the girls from his dream.

But she wasn’t. Her eyes were a muddy green, not clear blue or pale gray. Her hair was dark brown, not copper red or coal black. “Who are you?” The words left his mouth as a croak. His voice sounded nothing like it should have. “Where am I?”

Tears filled the strange girl’s eyes. “My name is Meera. I’m your nurse, Bran. You’re in Wintertown Hospital. What do you remember?”

_Wintertown Hospital?_ “How did I get here?”

The tears broke free and began to stream down her freckled cheeks. He wanted to wipe them away, but his arms felt like they were being weighed down by cement. “What do you remember, Bran?” she asked again. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

_Mother crying_. He couldn’t see her face, but he remembered the sound of her sobbing and the feel of her hands wrapped around his. “Where is everyone?” _Where are Mother and Father? Where are my sisters? My brothers?_ “Where’s my family?”

Meera sniffed and grasped one of his hands. “I don’t know, Bran. I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next up is an Arya chapter. It's going to be a long one, but I'm hoping to have it up in a week or two.


	4. Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seduction. It starts with desire and hinges on a promise.
> 
> It is knowing your target. It is weaving the perfect words together at the perfect times until he is dangling from your promises like a puppet on a string, desperate for another press of your skin against his, another brush with power he’s never had, another dollar to blow on drugs and women and cars.

_Seduction. It starts with desire and hinges on a promise._

_It’s about red lips and bare skin and hushed whispers in the backs of dark nightclubs. It’s about diamond earrings and expensive watches and another round of drinks. It’s about foreign countries and exotic cars and hotels that stretch upwards to the heavens, so high you think just maybe you can reach out and grasp a star._

_But it takes more than a lithe body or a stuffed wallet to seduce someone. It is knowing your target. It is weaving the perfect words together at the perfect times until he is dangling from your promises like a puppet on a string, desperate for another press of your skin against his, another brush with power he’s never had, another dollar to blow on drugs and women and cars._

_To seduce, you must wield another’s desires like a weapon. To seduce, you must have something another yearns for, or at least the illusion of it. It is a form of power just like any other, but one Arya Stark has never relied upon to survive. To seduce, you must have something to offer, and what did the long-faced lost girl who scoured dumpsters for dinner have to offer anyone? Instead, she has relied on shadows and threats and well-placed knives to fight off the horrors of the streets._

_Arya Stark has kept herself alive for years by pushing people away. It had never occurred to her that power could also rest in drawing people closer._

 

* * *

 

 

She went for his throat. It was her favorite place to strike. It usually made quick work of enemies with the added bonus of shutting them the fuck up in the process. She felt no need to offer a dead man his last words.

The strike never landed though. Jaqen smacked her arm down with so much force she stumbled backwards, allowing him to pin her against the wall. He leaned his face close to hers and whispered, “You’re too aggressive.”

_Too aggressive? What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Cat pushed him back and threw the wooden dagger to the floor. “Oh, well, excuse me, I thought we were fighting not dancing,” she sneered, holding up her hands.

Jaqen smirked and tossed his own play dagger down with hers. “The best fighters have the elegance of a dancer. All you think about is the strike, not the dance. A halfway decent opponent will catch you thinking too many steps ahead.”

“Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?” she snapped. “I must be doing something right.”

“It’s not because you are any good with a knife, little one,” he laughed. “You lure people into the shadows and stab them in the backs. You only succeed because people always seem to underestimate little girls.”

“We all work in the shadows here.” She was beginning to feel defensive. He was the one who had recruited her, after all. If he thought she was so useless, he should have left her the hell alone. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said, laughing again. “You take everything as a criticism, little one. We all must use the strengths we’re given. Yours so far has been going unnoticed.”

“So far?”

“It's time to learn your other strengths, I think. The shadows can be effective, but there is another sort of power in being noticed.”

Cat rolled her eyes. She hated when he insisted on speaking in these kinds of riddles instead of just telling her what he wanted. “What’s there to notice?” No one had ever noticed her. She was the second daughter, the one with the plain face and the coarse manners and the mediocre grades. Standing next to sweet Sansa and her perfect, charming brothers had made her all but invisible as a girl. At her father’s political events, no one had bothered much with her and Jon. They always managed to slip away to some quiet hallway and wish they were anywhere else. Things hadn’t improved much since then. People preferred not to see the children of the streets. She never even worried that someone might recognize her as the daughter of the disgraced Eddard Stark roaming alleyways like a stray dog.

“Have you been watching the car mechanic like I told you?”

_For two fucking weeks. Two fucking weeks of absolutely nothing._ “Yes. Could you have given me a more boring target?”

“What have you learned?”

Cat shrugged. “I don’t know. That he likes cars and has a serious stick up his ass.”

“You ought to be taking this a little more seriously.”

“It’s a ridiculous fucking assignment and a ridiculous fucking plan,” she nearly shouted. “How am I supposed to seduce him out into the alley? I’ve seen at least five women throw themselves at him just this week, and he’s barely acknowledged them. What if he’s gay or something? Can’t I just go in there and stab him?”

“What did I say about being too aggressive, little Cat? The boy’s got a gun, and he’s a decent shot. We’d rather kill him without him killing one of us first. That’s why we need him in the alley with his guard down, and nothing lowers a man’s guard like a beautiful woman.”

“Then get a beautiful woman to do it! And give _me_ something interesting to do.”

Jaqen huffed and before she realized he was even moving, he was in front of her again with his face only inches from hers. One of his hands pressed against the wall by her ear and the other grasped her cheek. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone until it stopped by her ear. “You don’t realize how lovely you are, do you?” he asked quietly, his breath hot against her lips. “You don’t see what the rest of us see.”

Only an inch closer, and their lips would be touching. Heat was building low in her stomach, but she struggled to keep her face calm; she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing what his pale eyes and sharp features and soft lips were doing to her.

“You’re not like most women,” he continued. He let his hand drop to her shoulder and leaned forward so his cheek was against hers and his lips were just over her ear. “You’re special. You’re dangerous. You’re fire.”

When his lips pressed against the corner of her jaw, her back arched and her hips pushed forward to his seemingly on their own accord. Her breathing slowed, and it felt like her skin had caught fire. Other men had been this close to her before, but it had never felt quite like this. There had been sturdy, older Harwin, and sweet, well-to-do Edric who thought he could save her, and kind, talkative Denyo. None of them had been interesting enough to distract her for long, not when she had to focus on surviving, on running, and on revenge. But she found herself hoping desperately Jaqen H’ghar would kiss her now and make her forget everything, even if just for a moment. For a man who made his living remaining invisible, he was doing a spectacular job of demanding her attention.

But he didn’t kiss her. He didn’t move at all, and it was maddening. “Do it,” she challenged, unable to stand his breath on her neck for a second more without _something_ happening. “I’ll let you.”

“Let me _what_ , little Cat?” he laughed. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

She was tempted to send her knee into his groin for that. There was almost nothing she hated more than being laughed at, than being made to feel like a joke. One moment, he was telling her she was special and the next he was treating her like a child. He was infuriating, but it didn’t make her want to kiss him any less, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. She knocked her shoulder hard into his chest, pushing him back just far enough that she could jump up on to her toes and plant her lips on his.

Her kiss was met with a low groan. His fingertips dug into her hips, and he crashed them back into the wall with such force her ears started ringing. She didn’t have time to consider if he had actually hurt her, not when his tongue was running along her lips and her hands were mapping the long lines of his body. The only thought running through her mind was that she wanted more.

When his lips pulled away from hers, she whined in a way that was completely unlike her, but she sighed when they moved to her neck instead. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him close, as his hand ran over her breast and down her ribcage. She could feel him hard against her hip and let her free hand move over it. He groaned again, but just as she reached the buckle of his belt, he broke away and turned his back to her.

Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. She stared at his back and imagined what he would look like free of his dark clothes, imagined what it would feel like to run a fingertip down the length of his spine. After nearly a minute had gone by in silence, Cat moved forward to do just that. But when her hand touched him, he backed away again, as if her skin really were fire. “What?” she snapped. “What happened?”

“We can’t afford distractions in this business, Cat,” Jaqen answered slowly, still refusing to meet her eyes. “We are not one person. We are many people and many names, and we are no one. Love is grounding. It can make an identity, and that is not a luxury we have.”

“This isn’t love. This is sex.”

“This isn’t anything at all,” he countered. With that, he strode toward the door and left her standing alone in the center of the room.

“Where are you going?” she called out, as the door slammed behind him. “Fucking hell,” she muttered. She wanted to shout after him and demand an explanation, but she managed to hold her tongue. If anyone else were home, it wouldn’t do well to call attention to their spat. The House had rules against this sort of thing, and she was sure she didn’t want to know what the consequences were for breaking them.

She took a few long, calming breaths before marching after him, but he was nowhere to be found. The halls were empty, as was everyone’s room she peaked her head inside. She walked toward the back door, hoping she could at least find the skinny waif with the weird eyes back there to bum a cigarette off of. She paused just short of pulling open the door when she heard two male voices coming from the other side. She pressed her forehead to the dirty glass window that looked out into the alley and barely managed to make out Jaqen standing next to a much smaller man.

“How many are left?” The smaller man looked about the same age as her brother Jon would be now. He was sheet white with a weak chin and pimples lining his jaw and the corners of his mouth. Something about him was naggingly familiar to her. _Where have I seen him before?_

“Money first.”

“How many are left?” The younger man repeated the question with more force this time, but the trembling of his hands gave his fear away.

Jaqen smiled and shook his head. “Money first, then answers.”

He muttered something Cat couldn’t make out through the window and then held out the duffel bag in his hand. “It’s all there. How many are left? My grandfather needs to know. His employer is running out of patience.”

“Two,” Jaqen finally answered. “This kills one,” he added, holding up the bag. “We’ll need double to kill the last.”

“ _Double_? And why’s that?”

“The last one’s no street orphan. People know who her father was. It needs to be made to look like an accident, if you don’t want to draw suspicion. That takes creativity, and creativity costs extra.”

“We know the girl you’re talking about. We could take care of it ourselves. My grandfather won’t like this.”

“Then your grandfather is more than welcome to kill the girl himself. It is he who needs the House, not the other way around. If he wants to risk the suspicion murdering the girl could bring upon your family then so be it. The House doesn’t care.”

The young man pursed his lips, but he grudgingly nodded. “Fine, when this one’s taken care of, I’ll bring double. I can’t wait until I never have to come to this creepy fucking place again.” He turned away from Jaqen and disappeared around the corner. Cat stared at the spot where he had been standing, unable to shake the feeling she had met that man before.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her upright. “What the hell were you doing?” Jaqen asked again, when she didn’t answer immediately. She had been so lost in thought, she hadn’t even heard him open the door.

“Watching you.”

“Never do that again.” He dropped her arm and moved to walk away.

“Who was that man? I think I know him from somewhere.”

Jaqen froze mid-step and for the first time since she had met him, she thought he almost looked nervous. “A man paying for our services,” he said. “Anything else is irrelevant to us.”

“But—"

“It is not your place to ask questions like that, Cat,” he cut in sharply. “Tomorrow we kill the car mechanic. Get some sleep, and be ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Holy fuck, he’s huge._ It was the first time she had seen her target from closer than the abandoned warehouse across the street from his garage. It was obvious even from there that he was larger than the average man, but she hadn’t imagined he would tower over her quite so dramatically. He was built like a bull with impossibly broad shoulders and arms so large she suspected he could toss her from the shop with ease if he wanted to.

But it was his eyes that struck her the most. When he turned to face her, she caught herself gasp. They were the dark, blackish-blue of a night sky. They were beautiful and familiar, just like Bella’s had been.

“Hello,” he greeted, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans. “Can I help you with something?”

“I—I’m not sure. I’m new in town,” she sputtered out, still struck by his eyes. He raised an eyebrow and said nothing, making her feel like a complete idiot. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Have a car that needs repairs?”

_I can’t even remember the last time I was in a car._ “No, I don’t.”

“Not sure I can help you then, ma’am.”

_Ma’am? I’m not a fucking ma’am, you asshole._ “People were saying you’ve been in the neighborhood for years. I was hoping maybe you could recommend a good place to eat and meet people, you know?”

“Don’t get out much. Sorry.”

She felt her fists clench. How was she supposed to flirt with a man that could barely speak in complete sentences? “Neither do I, but I was hoping to fix that,” she said, trying to smile the way she remembered Sansa always smiling at Joffrey Baratheon and Willas Tyrell and any moderately attractive boy who crossed her path. It was the smile that had always lit up Sansa’s face and made her impossible to ignore, but Arya suspected she probably just looked deranged.

“Don’t know. The Quill and Tankard is where the college kids go. They’re always looking to _meet_ people.”

“Oh, do you go to college around here?” It was a stupid question that she already knew the answer to, but it was too late to take it back.

The mechanic snorted. “Do I look like I go to college?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer that without offending him further. _Change the fucking subject already._ “Well, I’m Cat,” she offered, holding out her hand.

He glanced at her hand but only shook his head instead of taking it. “Grease,” he said, showing her his palms. “Gendry. I fix cars.”

_Oh fuck this, I’m just going to stab him in the neck._ She moved slowly toward him while fingering the knife she had tucked into the back of her belt. He took a step back from her in response and his eyes widened slightly. Those fucking eyes.

There was one question she needed to ask before going any further. “Do you know Bella Rivers?”

Gendry groaned and rolled his eyes. “You’re one of _her_ girls, aren’t you? Would you tell her to cut that shit out? I’m not interested, and I don’t think she’s funny.”

“Bella’s dead. She’s been dead for weeks.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed, running his hand through his already messy hair. “Shit, really? Are you serious? What happened to her?”

_I murdered her._ “They think an angry customer might have poisoned her,” she answered. “Were you two related? You look so much alike.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

_And you avoid a lot of question, don’t you?_ But for every question he avoided, she wanted to ask a hundred more. She was there for one purpose—to help kill this young man. She knew she was an idiot to be risking that mission to satisfy her own curiosity, but she couldn’t block out the voice in the back of her mind screaming that something wasn’t right about all of this. “Were you born here?”

“Who the hell are you?” he practically growled in response. “What do you want from me?”

It hit her then, suddenly and violently, who this boy and Bella Rivers reminded her of. The realization took hold of her body and threatened to crush her under the weight of it. She thought of another enormous, black-haired, blue-eyed man with a deep voice that came out in a growl whenever he was angry. She thought of the way he used to ruffle her hair and say she would grow up to be as pretty as her aunt had been someday.

Gendry’s face scrunched up in what might have been concern. “Are you feeling all right, Cat? You look pale.”

_Robert has bastards all over the damn country_ , her mother had complained once, when the paternity test proving Edric Storm was Robert Baratheon’s child had been front-page news. _Are you sure you can continue to support this man, Ned?_

_How many are left?_ The weasel-faced young man had asked Jaqen that. She now knew exactly what the question meant. _I’m helping the goddamn Lannisters kill Robert Baratheon’s children. I’m helping Cersei remove the last obstacles in her way to complete control of Baratheon Global._

“Fuck,” she hissed, stomping her foot into the ground like a child. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tears were pooling in her eyes, and her legs were shaking beneath her. She wanted to fall to her knees and sob and beg forgiveness for what she had done to anyone who would listen. How could she not have realized it all when she first looked into Bella’s eyes? How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been helping those she had sworn revenge against this entire time?

“Look, lady, I don’t—”

“We have to get out of here. Now.”

“ _We_ have to get out of here? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You are if you want to stay the fuck alive,” she snapped back. “There are people outside waiting to kill you.” That was it. With those words she had officially turned her back on the House of Black and White. She had made herself the enemy of a group of assassins more powerful than she could ever hope to be to save the life of this stupid, dreadfully dull car mechanic who just so happened to be Robert Baratheon's spawn.

“Kill me? What the fuck are you on? If you’re looking for money for drugs or something—”

“I’m not on drugs, you fucking moron. I’m an acolyte of the House of Black and White, or was at least. Ever heard of them?”

All of the angry bravado from just a moment ago evaporated instantly, and he slouched into himself in a way that almost made him look like a little boy. “You’re fucking with me.”

She pulled out her knife and aimed it at his heart. “I assure you I’m not. Someone has paid a lot of money to have you killed.”

“ _Me_? Who could possibly want _me_ dead that badly?”

“I don’t have time to explain that.”

“Do you have time to explain why exactly I should trust you and not call the police to tell them there’s a crazy person in my garage?”

Arya narrowed her eyes and shot toward him. He tried to back away from her again but ended up stumbling over his own feet, allowing her to grab his arm and press the point of her knife against his spine. “Don't make a sound, and walk to the window slowly,” she ordered. “Look into the alley and tell me what you see.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her warily but did what she said. He pressed his nose to the glass and then pulled away. “A man in all black.”

“A man waiting to kill you, you mean.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “This doesn’t make any goddamned sense.”

“It will soon,” she assured him. “But the only way you stay alive long enough for me to explain it to you is if you come with me right now and do absolutely everything I say when I say it. Got it?”

He grumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t understand but nodded his acquiescence. “Fine.”

“Good. Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t often that Arya found herself thinking about the sister she hadn’t seen in years. It was difficult to stay focused and pretend to be someone else when she allowed the memories of _that_ life to surface. And while she found it nearly impossible not to see her brother Jon in the face of every dark-haired man she passed on the street, or to long for Bran’s optimistic chatter every time she felt hopeless, or to recall Robb patching up her bloody knee every time someone showed her even the smallest of kindnesses, very little reminded her of sweet, silly Sansa.

The crusty carpet, peeling orange wallpaper, and distinct smell of cat piss the shitty motel she and Gendry had chosen in a moment of desperation forced her to remember the sister she had barely known though. _Sansa would be absolutely disgusted_ , she thought, surprised to find a small smile forming on her lips. _She would have marched down to the front desk, put her hands on her hips, and told them primly that these conditions were inhumane._

“What are you so happy about?” Gendry asked. “Is pissing off a group of assassins your idea of fun?”

It was more of a thrill than she cared to admit, but the smile vanished from her face at the reminder of why she was trapped in this filthy room with this strange, gruff man. “I’m not happy. I’m never happy.”

“Well, that’s something we have in common, I guess.” He turned away from her and peeled off the sweaty, grease-stained t-shirt he was wearing. She wanted to look away. She wanted to get up and stare out the window to make sure no one had followed them here. She wanted to do anything other than allow her eyes to trace the hard lines of his back and the slope of the bull horns tattooed there, but she found it impossible to look away. His skin was dark and smooth and with every move he made, she could see his muscles tense and then relax again. Suddenly, her mouth felt very dry.

She swallowed and then asked, “What’s with the horns?”

“None of your business.” He pulled on the clean shirt he had bought at the gift shop, and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. “It’s your turn to talk now,” he added. “What the hell is going on? Why are people trying to kill me?”

“Because you’re Robert Baratheon’s bastard son,” she answered bluntly. There was no time to try to put it delicately, and he seemed like someone who would appreciate the candor. “And Cersei Baratheon doesn’t want anyone threatening the Baratheon inheritance.”

She was expecting him to argue with her and insist there was no way a lowly mechanic from the poor side of Oldtown like him could possibly be the son of the man who was one of the wealthiest businessmen in the world before his death. Instead, Gendry simply nodded and said, “I had a feeling that’s what this all was about.”

“You knew? And you never approached him?”

Gendry shrugged. “I didn’t really _know_ know, just had a suspicion, I guess. My mother sort of implied it once when he was on the news for something, but she died before I could ask her more. I’ve never asked that family for a goddamn penny, and I’m not about to start now. I don't care about their money. I don't need it. Just tell them to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Yeah, like I can walk up to Cersei Baratheon and just tell her to leave you alone because you pinkie promised not to go after her money,” she mocked. “Don’t be an idiot. All that hag cares about is her money, and she’s not going to stop until you’re dead.”

Gendry’s mouth formed a hard line. “Then what the hell do you suggest I do about this?”

“I have no idea. Change your name, dye your hair blond or something, and move to Essos where hopefully the House won’t be able to find you.”

“Is that a fucking joke? I have a life here!” he shouted. “I was happy here! I can’t just leave my shop behind—”

“That’s not how this works. That life is gone now,” she interjected. “It was gone the second the House accepted money in exchange for your life. They’ll never stop chasing you now, not until they accomplish what they were paid to do.”

“And I’m just supposed to be okay with that?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a shit how you feel about this.”

Gendry huffed, turned away from her, and stopped just short of slamming his fist into the wall. Instead, he let his arm fall and began clenching and unclenching his fists in time with his breathing. She was thankful for the self-control. The last thing they needed was someone calling the cops or checking in on them.

“Who the fuck are you anyways?” he asked, after he seemed to calm himself down enough to speak again. “How do you know about all of this?”

“That’s not important.”

“If I’m stuck with you then yeah, yeah it is,” he argued. “Your name’s not really Cat, is it? Who are you? Why do you care about me?”

“That’s not important,” she repeated, sitting back on to the creaky motel mattress and resting her hands on her knees. “I’m going to kill the people who want to kill you, and that’s really all you need to know. Other than that, I’m no one.”

“I think you’re a liar.”

“I think I saved your fucking life.”

“I think deciding not to murder me in my own place of business doesn’t quite qualify as saving my life,” he spat back, and she laughed before she could stop herself. It was a surprisingly witty response from a man she thought wouldn’t recognize a sense of humor if it slapped him across the face. “What? You think that’s funny?”

“Kind of,” she admitted. “Now stop talking. I need to think about what we’re going to do next.”

“We? There’s no we.”

“Fine, go ahead and leave. Go back to your shop if you want, but remember that I warned you and don’t you dare haunt me when you’re dead.”

This time Gendry laughed. “You’re absolutely insane, aren’t you?” he muttered, running his hand through his hair again. “Do you think it’s safe for me to go grab a soda from the vending machine?”

“You’re never going to be _safe_ again, but if you get two, I think it’d be worth the risk.”

Gendry smirked. “All right then.”

He disappeared through the door, and she let herself collapse back on to the pillows lining the top of the bed. They were too hard and the coils of the mattress were sticking into her back, but she was too exhausted to care. In mere minutes, everything she had worked for these past few months had been destroyed. There was no going back to Oldtown now. It was time to move on again.

_There are two left._ That’s what Jaqen had told the weak-chinned man. Arya knew she should find that girl next before Cersei Baratheon could get her claws into her, but how would she be able to track her down? It’s not like she could ask Jaqen for the name. The buyer had known her identity as well, but how was she going to find him? If only she could figure out why he and his weak chin had looked so familiar.

It was then, just as Gendry walked back in with two soda cans in hand, that it finally came to her why she recognized him. She shot up and grinned at Gendry. “Get some sleep. We have a long way to travel tomorrow.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get revenge.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Twins was one of the oldest mansions on Arbor Island. It was really two mansions that stood tall on either side of a river. She, Bran, and Rickon were sometimes forced to go there and socialize with the younger Freys as children. Mother insisted she be nice because the Freys were important friends, but Arya hated going. There were way too many people running around and every Frey she met seemed to be more simpering and irritating than the last.

Standing outside of the tall, mahogany front doors again brought all those memories rushing back—the way Elmar Frey would drone on about how they would be married someday, the way Little and Big Walder would tease Bran mercilessly and encourage Rickon to play along with their cruel games, the way she once secretly chopped off a chunk of Roslin Frey’s hair after she overheard her saying mean things about Robb.

“What is this place?” Gendry whispered, glancing anxiously around them.

“The Twins,” Arya answered. “The Frey Estate.”

“The _what_ estate?”

“The Freys. Don’t you pay attention to the news? They're one of the richest and most ruthless families in the business world.”

“No, I don’t pay attention to the news,” Gendry grumbled back. “And if I did, I wouldn’t give a shit about what a bunch of rich assholes were doing.”

“Well, you should. They’re the ones who paid to have you killed.”

“I thought you said—”

“They’re working with the Lannisters.”

“How do you—?”

“I just know, all right?” she interrupted. “Now, you wait here. Stay hidden. If I start screaming or if I’m gone for more than thirty minutes, you better try to save me.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“You’ve got a gun, and I’ve been told you’re a good shot. So prove it.” With that, she sprung up from their hiding place and strode up the stairs to the front door. She took a deep breath and then pushed the doorbell. The ringing was swiftly followed by a flurry of footsteps. There was no turning back now. It was time to use what Jaqen had taught her. And it was time for her to finally take the first step toward the revenge her family deserved.

A bony woman with wide eyes and straggly brown hair opened the door. There was an infant balanced on her hip and two more children clutching to her skirts. “Can I help you, miss?” she asked, sounding out of breath.

“My name is Nan. I’m looking for Walder,” Arya lied, flashing the most girlish smile she could manage and wringing her hands together in front of her. “We have a date. He said I should erm—meet him here. Is he around?”

“Which Walder would that be, hon?”

“Oh dear, is there more than one here?”

The woman sighed, and Arya thought she might have noticed her roll her eyes. “Come on in, sweetheart,” she said, holding open the door. “You can wait right here, and I’ll see if I can find him for you, all right?”

“Thank you so much.”

The woman nodded and disappeared down the hallway, screaming out “Walder! Walder!” with every step she took.

Arya stood in the hall and considered her next move. The plan was to corner one of the Freys and try to get information about Robert’s other remaining bastard. But with so many of them running around, how was she supposed to know which Freys the family patriarch had let in on his schemes? She wished she could have caught the pimply boy’s name from earlier. He would have been nearly effortless to break.

“It’s too bad I’m not the Walder you’re looking for.”

She jumped and whipped around to find a wide, towering man standing much too close to her. His face was youthful, but the gray hair at his temples betrayed his age. He might have looked like any other Frey if not for his eyes. They were black and beady, reminding Arya of a wild animal. She remembered his eyes. She remembered Elmar flinching at the mere sight of this man. She remembered him telling her in a hushed whisper, _that’s Black Walder_. Black Walder was the senior Walder Frey’s favorite child. He was competent and dangerous, but he was only the second son and hated it.

“Oh, hello there,” she greeted. “I’m Nan.”

Black Walder smiled, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. “You’re a beautiful young woman, Nan. It’s a shame you’re probably going to be wasted on one of my idiot nephews or brothers.”

_He’ll know everything. He’s the one I need._ “You really think I’m beautiful?” she giggled, looking up at him through her lashes. When the man grinned back hungrily at her, she found herself almost thankful for all the times she had been forced to watch Sansa flirt. The maddening display she had observed so many times was finally coming in use.

“You’re stunning.” He moved closer, so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Are you sure you want to waste your time with a boy? You look like the kind of girl who needs a real man in her life.”

Nan giggled again and looked down at her shoes. “Oh, I don’t know. I did promise to go to dinner and—”

“Of course you did, and I wouldn’t want you to break your promise.” Two calloused fingers tapped the bottom of her chin and forced her face up so their eyes met again. “How about I show you our gardens while you’re waiting? The roses are in bloom. You like roses?”

Roses were Sansa’s favorite. “They’re my favorite.”

“Perfect. Why don’t you follow me?”

“What about Walder?”

“Don’t you worry, it will only take a minute. And it’s his own fault for making a girl like you wait, isn’t it?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pushed her forward more roughly than she had expected. She stumbled through the front door and was shocked when he continued to push her until a wall of flowers hid them from view. The way he looked down at her then told her exactly what he was planning on doing. It wasn’t the first time a man had looked at her like this, but it still sent a shiver down her spine. She thought about the knife tucked inside her jacket and willed herself to remain calm.

“How lovely,” she observed. “But maybe we should be getting back?”

“Not yet,” Black Walder said, grasping her hip in one large hand. “I’d like to keep you all to myself for a while, Nan. What do you think about that?”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“Have you ever pleased a man before, Nan?” He raised his other hand and tangled his fingers tightly in her short hair. She knew what he was asking. She thought about all of the other women he must have done this to over the years. The Freys weren't well respected, but they were rich and connected enough to keep their own out of trouble. There were rumors when she was young that the Freys had paid off a young woman Black Walder had assaulted to keep quiet. Judging by the way he was acting now, she was sure that girl wasn’t the last. Even if she had felt any guilt about what she planned to do, it would’ve disappeared in that moment.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He moved the hand on her hip to her shoulder and began to push her toward the ground, but Nan fought against it.

“Could you—do you think you could kiss me first? Please?” she asked with wide eyes. “I’d like it if you would kiss me first.” The black-eyed man laughed loudly. It was a cruel sound. She wondered how many women he had laughed at like this. She wondered how many women he had cornered in this very garden. If she had her way tonight, at least she would be the last.

“If that will make you feel like less of a whore, girl, sure,” Black Walder mocked, before closing his eyes and leaning forward.

Instead of the press of her lips, the gesture was met with the blade of her dagger against his throat. His eyes shot open, and his grip tightened threateningly in her hair. “I’ll slit your throat open before you can push me away,” she warned, “So take your hands off me if you don’t want to water these roses with your blood.”

His face contorted into a perfect picture of rage. “Fucking cunt,” he growled, but he loosened his grip and then held his hands up in front of him. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I want to know the names of Robert Baratheon’s surviving bastards.” _And I want you to die miserable and alone in this garden._

“You’ve got be fucking kidding me. Who sent you?”

“I’m here on my own.”

“Right. I’m sure Stannis fucking Baratheon has nothing to do with this,” he hissed, pressing slightly forward into her dagger. “Tell me who you’re working for, girl. I'll double whatever they're giving you.”

“I work for me. Tell me what I need, or I’ll open your throat.”

His nostrils flared and, for a moment, Arya thought he actually might risk lunging at her, but he stayed in place and finally answered. “One’s some street kid, a whore’s son in Oldtown, don’t know his name. He’s a nothing, and he’s dead by now. The other is Mya Stone. She lives in the Vale. Her mother’s family owns some farm up there or something.”

“Good, now was that so hard?”

“Fuck you, cunt,” he snapped. “You have what you want, now put your fucking knife away.”

“Do what the man says, Cat.” A new voice entered the conversation. It was deep and familiar and paralyzed her with fear. It belonged to a fellow acolyte of the House of Black and White—a pale boy with faded blue eyes and lips that always looked faintly purple. “Lower your dagger and accept your fate. Did you really think you could run from us and survive?”

“Please—”

“All men must die,” the boy interrupted. “Today is your day.”

The barrel of a gun pushed into her spine. There was no escaping from this. She was trapped between two men who wanted her dead, but Arya still couldn’t bring herself to lower her weapon and surrender. Maybe she could kill Black Walder before she paid the price of betraying the House? If she managed it, at least she would have a small taste of revenge before her life was stolen like Mother’s and Father’s and Robb’s. But just as she was about to lunge forward and slash the dagger across Walder’s throat, a shot rang out.

She collapsed to the ground and waited for the darkness to overtake her. The bullet must have struck her. Members of the House of Black and White didn’t miss, especially not when their targets were so close, but she didn’t feel any pain. _Am I in shock?_ She reached behind her and felt around her back for the wetness of blood, but there was none to be found. _What in the hell?_

“Did you get all the information you needed from this one?”

She looked up to see Gendry standing over her with a gun in his hand. When she glanced behind her, she found the boy from the House lying dead on the ground, a single bullet wound on the side of his head. “Holy shit,” she whispered, as she shakily got back on her feet. “You—you killed him.”

“Yeah, I killed him. Do you need me to kill this one, too?” Gendry had his gun aimed at Black Walder now, who was slowly attempting to inch away from them. “Decide quickly, because everyone in that house sure as hell heard the gunshot.”

“No, don’t kill him,” Arya answered, gripping her dagger tight. She walked toward Black Walder until she had him cornered against the wall of the mansion. “Do I look familiar to you?” she asked, quietly enough so that Gendry couldn’t hear. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Walder spat. “I don’t.”

“You knew me as a girl,” she told him. “I played here in this very garden once. But that was a long time ago.”

“Just tell me who the hell you are and what you want. You looking for money? I can give you money.”

“No, I’m not looking for money. I’m Ned Stark’s daughter, asshole. I’m the daughter of the innocent man your family helped destroy.”

Black Walder let out a long, booming laugh. “You’re shitting me,” he exclaimed, squinting his eyes through the darkness. “The little tomboy Elmar had a crush on back in the day? Holy shit, we all thought you were dead, girl.”

“Well, I’m not. But you are. And the rest of you will follow.” Before he could open his mouth to protest, Arya dragged the blade across his throat and let the blood spill out over his fancy clothes. He tried to say something, maybe he even tried to beg, but only an obscene, gurgling noise could be heard. _Good, this bastard doesn’t deserve any last words._ She smiled when his body fell limply to the ground at her feet and the last bit of life faded from those horrible black eyes. She could have stayed and watched the dark blood pooling around his head for hours, but Gendry’s hand on her shoulder forced her back into reality.

“I can hear them yelling inside,” he said. “They must have called the cops by now. We better go. Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” she laughed, staring up at him. “Am I all right? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so fucking good in my life.”

 

* * *

 

 

The wooden dagger felt heavy in his hands. It was only that morning she had been holding it, trying to thrust it into his neck. It was only that morning he had allowed his guard to fall for the first time in years and kissed her. It was only that morning the length of her body had been arched against his in this very room. And now she was dead.

He was sure she must be dead by now. Cat was the most promising acolyte he had taught in years, but not even she could outrun the House of Black and White. They would find her, and they would steal the light from her eyes. He wondered if they would even bother to bring the body back for a proper burial, or if they would just dump her in a murky river and let her wash up as some nameless street brat months or even years later.

_She deserves more than that. She deserves to be known as more than a bunch of abandoned bones._ Since he had been recruited into the House as a boy, he had seen hundreds of people murdered and abandoned, plenty of them at his own hands. He learned quickly to disconnect himself from it all, to see it as just a natural part of life. All men must die, after all. With the exception of the first life he had ever taken, he never remembered their names or their stories or the last words they spoke before he carried out his task.

It should have been the same with this mouthy, dark-haired girl who had called herself Cat. She should have faded from his memory the moment the House declared her dead. But she remained stubbornly in the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t stop remembering the way she had felt under his hands. He couldn’t stop hoping she would find some way to escape her fate. He couldn’t stop thinking that she didn’t deserve this.

“Do you know why she would do this?” a soft voice asked. “Did she fall in love with the target?”

Jaqen turned and bowed his head to the leader of the House, the man Cat had nicknamed the Kindly Man when Jaqen refused to give her a real name. “I don’t think that’s possible. She had never spoken with him until today.”

“Then why did this happen?”

“Maybe she figured out why we were killing them,” Jaqen offered.

“And why should she care about that?”

“I don’t know.” It was true enough. He still didn’t know anything for certain, but he had his suspicions now. It was easy to change one’s name, but not so easy to change one’s eyes. They were gray like a winter sky. They were gray like a dying man’s on the floor of a prison cell.

“You’ll need to accept the blame for this.”

“I understand.”

“The girl managed to escape the acolyte we sent after her.” Jaqen looked down, hoping the relief he felt at the news didn’t show on his face. “It is now for you to take care of this. Will that be a problem? I know you recruited the girl.”

“Of course not,” he answered without hesitation. “All men must serve.”

“Yes, indeed, and this girl must die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isolation is the worst sort of punishment that can be inflicted upon us, and yet, it is the punishment we most frequently inflict upon ourselves.

_We are social creatures by nature. For all we might insist upon it sometimes, we are not meant to be alone. Loneliness erodes the foundations of a person. It can be a dull ache or a vague nausea or a gaping wound that we can hide but never heal, not on our own._

_Sansa Stark feared being alone. She defined herself by how others saw her. She prided herself on being magnetic, on demanding attention. She surrounded herself with friends and admirers, never considering the motives that might hide behind their pretty smiles._

_Alayne Stone feared making real connections. The only person she could rely on was Petyr, a man who sometimes looked at her like he was barely resisting tearing her clothes off. There had been lovers, but she always left them before morning. There had been friends, but they never knew more than the very surface._

_Love was too grounding for Alayne to risk, but it was something she longed for all the same. Because, even in the depths of isolation, we never stop hoping, even subconsciously, that someone might be able to see past the masks we fashion for ourselves and love what lies beneath._

_Isolation is the worst sort of punishment that can be inflicted upon us, and yet, it is the punishment we most frequently inflict upon ourselves._

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know, Layne. Maybe Baelish is right. He’s an asshole, but he knows these people better than we do.”

“Stop calling him an asshole.” Alayne glared into the mirror, as she tried to get her curls to frame her face just right. It was rare she attempted curls anymore, but she felt her newly dark hair needed more _oomph_ for this particular night. Her mother used to do this for her. The ringlets always came out beautifully then—loose enough to maintain the length of her hair and held back with a network of small, intricate braids. People used to the marvel at those braids. It was the kind of attention she needed tonight, but she was starting to think she was an idiot for assuming she could replicate the look on her own. “And what makes you say that? Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

“No. I just think the guy might be asexual.”

Alayne laughed out loud and ruined the braid she had been working on in the process. “And what makes you say _that_?”

Theon appeared behind her in the mirror with a glass of wine in hand. “The paparazzi follow that family everywhere, Layne. Like, I’m talking 24/7 here. Everyone’s fucking obsessed with them. They’re sneaky enough to still get away with shit, sure, but they’ve all been caught with their hands in someone else’s cookie jar, if you know what I mean,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Except Jaime. There have been a few rumors he’s gay but nothing convincing. Margaery Tyrell threw herself at him all last summer before she finally moved on to that little psychopath, and he barely acknowledged her existence. You _have_ to either be gay or asexual to ignore Margaery fucking Tyrell.”

“Maybe she’s not his type?”

“She’s everyone’s type,” Theon argued. “Hell, I’ve seen her convince straight girls they’re in love with her. People follow her around this island like lovesick puppies. It’s revolting.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Yeah, right, in her dreams maybe. I could buy that entire fucking family if I wanted to,” he scoffed, in a manner that wasn’t especially convincing. “All I’m saying is maybe you should go for Tyrion or Joff—”

“Oh, the little psychopath, you mean? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’d free up Margaery for—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Mar—”

“Ever heard that saying about protesting too much?”

“Fuck you, Layne.”

“And fuck you right back, Theon,” she snapped. “You don’t know me the way you think you do.” She turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “I’m not the same girl you knew. I’ve done things that other girl couldn’t have even fathomed, and I’ve brought down better men than Jaime Lannister. It’s not going to be a problem.” _God, I hope that’s true._ Despite her doubts, she must have at least sounded confident, because Theon simply held up his hands and muttered something about being hungry before retreating to her kitchen.

In truth, she was terrified Petyr and Theon were right. It would have been sensible to target someone else at this point, but Alayne couldn’t shake the feeling Jaime was the one she needed. There was something unique about him. There was something about the way he avoided the spotlight and allowed bitterness to drip from every word he spoke that told her he wasn’t as comfortable wearing a mask as the rest of his family. If she could only get him to notice her, she was sure she could break him in a way she suspected the other Lannisters weren’t even capable of breaking.

 

* * *

 

The dress Petyr picked out was far too low-cut for her liking, dipping between her breasts to just a few inches above her navel. To keep her breasts from spilling out, she had to use double-sided tape the woman at the boutique insisted was an everyday part of the modern woman’s wardrobe. As she anxiously adjusted the top for the tenth time, she wished she hadn’t listened.

“Stop doing that, would you?” Petyr scolded. “You look like an insecure little girl. Confidence is everything, Alayne.”

Alayne felt her cheeks redden. “Sorry, I just wish we had gone with the other dress.”

“You looked like a Septa in the other dress,” he grumbled. “Keep your back straight, and stop complaining. This is a big night for us.”

She apologized again, but Petyr only shrugged her off and pressed the doorbell. Music and laughter were coming so loudly from inside that she worried no one would hear the soft twinkling noise, but not even a few seconds later, the door swung open and Jeyne Poole beamed at them.

“Alayne!” she exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. “And Mr. Baelish! It’s lovely to see you again, sir. I believe the eldest Mr. Lannister was looking for you.”

Petyr flashed Jeyne the warm, inviting smile he was so good at plastering on to his face for these events. Alayne wondered if she was the only one who could see how it never quite reached his eyes. “Yes, we have business to discuss,” he said, kissing Jeyne on the cheek. “I fear it will be dreadfully dull. Keep an eye on my lovely niece while I’m gone, would you? No doubt you two will be the prettiest young ladies at the party.”

Jeyne blushed at the compliment, and Alayne felt her stomach twist. _He talks to everyone that way, you moron._ She watched them both intently, unsure of what pissed her off more—the blush on Jeyne’s cheeks or the way Petyr’s hand lingered on Jeyne’s hip just a moment too long. “I’ll be fine, Uncle,” Alayne said through clenched teeth. “Jeyne will show me around. Go ahead.” Petyr smirked and pressed a kiss to Alayne’s cheek as well before leaving.

“Well, thank god you’re finally here. Cersei is in such a mood, and I desperately need a friend, and seven hells, would you look at you?” Jeyne laughed when they stepped into the brighter lights of the foyer. “Did someone have to sew that dress on you?”

“Shit, is it too much? It’s too much, isn’t it? The lady at the store _insisted_ it was in style or something, and then my uncle _insisted_ on paying for it—”

“Alayne, shut up, you look hot,” Jeyne cut in. “Queen Cersei is going to shit herself when she sees you. And it _is_ the style now, though most people can’t pull it off like you.”

“I’m not so sure I’m pulling it off,” Alayne sighed, trying to pull down the hem of her skirt to a more modest spot on her thighs.

“You’re never going to find a man with that attitude,” Jeyne teased. She entwined their arms and dragged Alayne toward the ballroom. “There are plenty of eligible bachelors here tonight who are going to appreciate your uncle’s fashion sense just fine. Trust me.”

The ballroom that had been the site of countless birthday parties and wedding receptions and company functions in her youth was still as enormous and glamorous as she remembered. “You’ve really outdone yourself with this one, Jeyne,” Alayne said, looking up at the golden chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. “All this just for someone’s birthday, huh?”

“Yeah, well, the Lannisters do love to flaunt their wealth,” Jeyne drawled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be bitter about that though. If they were humble aristocrats, I’d be out of a job.”

“How could Cersei possibly find any fault in this?”

“Oh, _I’m_ not the reason she’s in a mood, for once.” Jeyne leaned in close to whisper in Alayne’s ear. “Tyrion made a joke about hiring a group of strippers to jump out of a cake and sing happy birthday to him, and Cersei is absolutely livid. I’ve told her a hundred times that if any strippers or giant cakes do show up, I’ll promptly send them on their way because like hell I’m going to let that tacky shit into _my_ party, but she won’t let it go. Those two live to get a rise out of each other, I swear.”

Alayne smiled. It was these tidbits of personal information about the Lannisters that made Jeyne so indispensable to her. “Cersei should trust you by now,” Alayne told her. “Oh, and where do I put my present?” she asked, holding up an exquisitely wrapped box. It was an expensive, illustrated book on dragon lore she expected Tyrion Lannister would appreciate.

“I’ll take that. You go ahead and mingle,” Jeyne said, pushing her toward the center of the room. “Like I said, there are plenty of single men here. Just keep your hands off Beric Dondarrion. I’ve been working on stealing him from his fiancé for months.”

Jeyne dashed away, weaving effortlessly though the crowd. Alayne looked around for any sign of Jaime or Tyrion or even one of the Tyrells, but a sea of unfamiliar faces greeted her instead. _I guess one drink won’t hurt_ , she reasoned, as she walked over to the bar, _Petyr always said it was okay to have one drink._ A handsome young man appeared when she rested her hand on the bar and nodded at her request for a glass of Arbor gold.

“You won’t be disappointed.” Cersei leaned against the bar next to her. She was draped in a floor-length, Braavosi-style emerald gown that made her green eyes shine. The dress was considerably more conservative than Alayne’s, but she still felt almost frumpy in comparison.

Alayne accepted the glass the boy handed to her and took a dainty sip. “I’m certainly not,” she agreed. “That might be the finest Arbor gold I’ve ever tasted.”

“Well, I’d hope so. It cost a bloody fortune.” She asked the bartender for a glass of her own before turning back to Alayne. “We haven't officially met yet. I’m Cersei Baratheon. I believe we’re neighbors now.”

“Yes, we are,” she said, shaking Cersei’s hand. “I’m Alayne Stone.”

“Alayne. That’s an interesting name.” She swirled the glass of wine in her hand and took a long drink, nearly emptying its contents. “I feel like a terrible hostess, Alayne. I had no idea you would be coming. Jeyne usually runs it by me if she plans on inviting friends.”

Alayne saw that comment for what it was—a polite way of asking, _What the hell do you think you’re doing here?_ “Oh, no, it was Jaime who invited me. I hope that’s all right.”

Cersei’s lip curled and her hand clenched tighter around the wine glass, so tight Alayne worried it might actually shatter under her grip. It was only a heartbeat before her mouth shifted back into a pleasant enough smile, but Alayne hadn’t missed the reaction. “Ah, I see. Jaime did say he had arranged an unorthodox gift for Tyrion.”

Alayne barely managed to hold in a laugh. She had expected more subtly from Cersei than thinly veiled prostitution jests. But when Cersei drained her first glass and then called out a little too loudly for a second in the matter of minutes, Alayne knew the reason why. Maybe the argument with Tyrion had caused her to drink more than usual, or maybe the newfound power that came with the fall of the Starks and Baratheons had turned the so-called Queen of the Arbor into a lush. Alayne hoped it was the latter, but she could work with either.

“Well, I’m happy to be here,” Alayne said cheerfully, ignoring the slight. “Your home is marvelous. Did you decorate yourself?”

“I hope you’ve been nothing but welcoming to my guest, sweet sister,” Jaime interjected before Cersei could answer. He walked over to them with a bright grin on his face and a beautiful young girl who could not have looked more like Cersei on his arm. “I’m glad you decided to come, Alayne.”

“Thank you for inviting me. Your family really knows how to throw a party.”

“Nah, it’s your friend Jeyne who has a knack for this. She’s the best event planner we’ve ever had,” Jaime said, which prompted a scowl from his sister that he either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. “Alayne, meet my niece, Myrcella.”

“Please, just call me Cella,” the girl said, wrapping her arms around Alayne in an unexpected embrace. “My uncles have already told me so much about you. You’re even more beautiful than you looked in your picture in the Courier.”

“Careful there, Myrcella,” Cersei grumbled, waving for a third glass of wine before she had even finished the second. “This is why those lesbian rumors started up at school.”

“Mother, please, _don’t_.” Myrcella blushed crimson, and it was Jaime’s turn to scowl. Alayne kept silent, waiting awkwardly for one of them to break the tense silence that followed. It was Myrcella who finally, mercifully spoke again, “They said you studied at Braavos University. That’s where I’m hoping to go when I grad—”

“Don’t encourage her silliness, Alayne,” Cersei interrupted again. “We’ve talked about this, Cella. There are plenty of perfectly fine schools in Oldtown.”

“She just doesn’t want Cella following in her favorite uncle’s footsteps.” With the arrival of Tyrion, Alayne found herself surrounded by Lannisters. She almost wished she could have slipped poison into their drinks and destroyed them all right there, in the very room where Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark were once treated like kings. It was a tempting thought, but she had decided a long time ago that death was too kind a fate for the Lannisters. She was here to make them suffer and that required patience and a pretty smile.

“I loved my time at Braavos University,” Alayne said. “If you’d like any advice—”

“Oh, seven hells,” Cersei muttered, “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

“Myrcella can go wherever—”

“I’m her _mother_ , Jaime,” Cersei spat. “I’m the one who decides what’s best for her, not you.” When he didn’t answer, she pursed her lips and walked away from their small group with a newly filled glass in hand, swaying just slightly on her stiletto heels.

“You’ll have to forgive my sister, Alayne. I think she’d prefer if we treated the anniversary of my birth as a day of mourning,” Tyrion chuckled. It was clearly meant as a joke, but Alayne noticed Jaime grimace at the comment. Like his sister, he was quick to put a smile back on his face, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had prompted the reaction. “I’m glad you decided to come.” Tyrion reached out, grasped her hand between his, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles like he was some sort of knight from a fairytale.

“Alayne, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since I heard you were in town,” Myrcella said. “I really admire everything you’ve been doing to support Alysanne’s List. It’s my absolute favorite charity. I’ve helped with a few of the fundraisers they’ve held on the island. I was thinking—well, I was thinking maybe we could plan—”

“Cella, Alayne is here on _vacation_ ,” Jaime said, patting his niece on the shoulder. “I’m sure she’d like to relax, not plan charity events.”

“Maybe she _likes_ planning charity events.”

“I would love to help you plan an event, Cella.” It was hard to believe the daughter of Cersei Lannister could be so eager to help people, but she didn’t allow herself to think much of it. There was no use in starting to like the girl when she was about to destroy everything she had ever known. “It’s something I love to do, actually, even if it’s not your uncle’s idea of a good time,” she added, with a sly smile in Jaime’s direction. To her surprise, he was grinning back at her. She wondered if, like his sister, he had already had a bit too much to drink.

“Well, surely there must be something you do for fun other than charity.”

“You’ll have to forgive my brother too, Alayne,” Tyrion said, resting the palm of his hand on her forearm. She caught herself looking down at that hand and made herself meet Jaime’s eyes instead. All she wanted was to rip her arm away from his grasp. All she wanted was to stop feeling the press of his bare skin against hers.

“I only meant that it couldn’t possibly be relaxing,” Jaime clarified. “Don’t tell me you plan charity events to relax, Alayne.”

“No, arguing with caterers isn’t particularly relaxing, I admit. I like to swim though. To relax, I mean, especially at night,” Alayne said, keeping her eyes locked singularly on Jaime’s. “And I read a lot.”

“What’s your favorite?” Tyrion asked.

“ _Florian and Jonquil_.” The answer slipped through her lips like water through her hands. It wasn’t the answer she had rehearsed with Petyr. Alayne Stone’s favorite books were serious and instructive. They talked of wars and famines and crimes and statistics. They talked of hard truths, not silly, girlish fantasies.

Tyrion’s eyebrows furrowed. It was evidently not the answer he was expecting either. “You don’t say. It seems you’re a romantic like my brother.”

“By romantic, he actually means fool.” Tyrion opened his mouth to protest, but Jaime waved his hand to silence him. “Much to my little brother’s chagrin, I believe in soul mates, that there’s one person on this earth we’re all meant to be with, as ridiculous as that must sound.”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all,” Alayne said, her voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper. She felt Tyrion’s hand fall from her arm then, and when she looked down at him, his eyes were darting curiously between her and Jaime.

“I don’t either,” Myrcella declared, still grinning at her. “Has anyone given you a tour of the house yet? I bet you would just love the library. There’s a first edition copy of _Florian and Jonquil_ in there, if I’m not mistaken. Would you—?”

“That’s an excellent idea, Cella. I’d be happy to show Miss Stone around,” Jaime interjected, offering her his arm.

Myrcella frowned and looked like she wanted to argue, but Alayne accepted the gesture before the girl could say anything. She came to this party for Jaime Lannister, and it was proving easier than anticipated to get him alone. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Jaime nodded and guided her out of the ballroom. All eyes were glued on them as they made their way across the dance floor and then up the winding staircase that led to the second floor. She could hear their scandalized whispers, and she could see the jealousy in their eyes, but it was only Cersei’s stare she took the care to assess. There was fire in her eyes, like she wanted to wrap her hands around Alayne’s throat and never stop squeezing. She had made some enemies during her years as Petyr’s apprentice, but she couldn’t remember anyone ever having looked at her with so much loathing before. _Why the hell does she care who her brother fucks?_

“Your sister is glaring daggers at me,” Alayne whispered.

“That’s because my sister is a bitch,” Jaime stated simply, not bothering to glance back to where Cersei was standing. He dropped her arm when they reached the top of the stairs and held his arms open. “Now, where should we go first? The library is on the other side of this labyrinth, I’m afraid, so that will have to wait for later in the tour. Down this hall are just some offices—”

“I’d like to see everything you can show me.” _Especially your sister’s office._ “I’ve heard so much about the Baratheon Manor.”

“Have you? I hate this place, but everyone does seem to think it’s some sort of architectural triumph.” The sullenness in his tone intrigued her. _Did he hate Robert Baratheon that much?_ “Well, follow me. We’ll see where all the scheming is done first.”

“Scheming?”

“You don’t make this much money without breaking the rules, Alayne.” He smiled, but the words weren’t spoken in a playful manner. In fact, there seemed to be a nearly constant undercurrent of bitterness in his voice. “The same must apply even to your charities.”

He took a set of keys out of his pocket and threw open the first door. It was a massive office, with a grand, mahogany desk by the windows and an even grander fireplace built into the far wall. Bran and Arya used to enjoy sneaking in here—Bran would pretend he was the President of Westeros and Arya his head of Secret Service. Sansa thought they were terribly silly, but she could see the appeal of it now. The office practically screamed importance, even with the changes Cersei had made to it, like the crystal vase on the mantel, the vintage, intricately embroidered red chair, and the solid gold nameplate on the desk.

“I’ve never had much of a head for scheming,” Alayne said. “I don’t like playing games.” It was a lie, but it had been true of Sansa, the girl who was foolish enough to take people at face value. “I have enough money to support my charities all on my own. I don’t need lies.”

“People don’t always lie because they _need_ to. Sometimes they lie because they want more than they already have.”

“Do you want more?”

Jaime leaned against his sister’s desk and clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m perfectly content with what I have, actually.”

“And you never lie?” she challenged, moving closer to him. “You don’t keep secrets?”

“I don’t have any secrets to keep."

“Well, that’s unusual, for someone so mysterious.” She moved in front of him and let her fingertips run delicately over the sleeve of his suit.

“Oh, I’m mysterious, am I?” he laughed. “How’s that?”

“People are always talking about your family,” she said, letting her eyes drop briefly but conspicuously to his lips. “They’re always in the papers for something, but never you. No one seems to know much of anything about you.”

“Well, it was difficult for the paparazzi to find me while I was in the army. Even those bloodsuckers wouldn’t brave a real war zone to get a picture of me fucking some girl or whatever the hell it is they’re after.”

“The army?” she asked, making sure her eyes went wide. She already knew that. She was careful to know as much about him as was possible to know without being in his inner circle, but there were benefits to playing dumb about certain things. If he thought she had been checking up on him, he might also think she was pursuing him for less than noble reasons. “For how long?”

“I left home at eighteen.” His eyes darted momentarily to where her fingers were still lingering on the sleeve of his jacket. “My father wanted me to marry some pretty socialite and go to college, major in business and all that, so I could take over the company. It wasn’t the future I imagined for myself. I needed to get away.”

_Poor little rich boy_ , she thought with contempt. She had heard enough of these sob stories from privileged young white men to last a lifetime. _I wanted to be a poet, but my father never understood me_ , they would complain solemnly, and she would struggle not to roll her eyes and spit back, _At least you have a fucking father._

“That was brave of you,” she said, letting her hand rest fully on his arm now. “Why did you come back? Did you change your mind about joining the business?”

His body tensed at the question, but he made no move to pull away from her. “Not exactly, I had my reasons. And I needed to support my sister after her husband died.”

_Was murdered, you mean._ “You two seem close.”

Jaime smirked and laughed softly under his breath. “Yeah, you could say that. Trust me, Alayne; I’m really not that interesting. I was a rebellious kid who grew up into a tired old man and came back to very thing he was trying to run away from his entire life. It’s not a new story. It’s pathetic.” He looked down at her hand again, which was hovering just over his now, and abruptly pushed off the desk. He strode away without a word, putting as much distance between them as was possible without leaving the room.

“You came back to help your family,” Alayne said gently, unsure of what she had done to spook him. “There’s nothing pathetic about that.” When he turned away from her to look into the empty fireplace, she quietly opened the clutch she was holding and pulled out the cloth-wrapped pen inside. It had been Theon’s housewarming gift to her, and now it would be her first gift to Cersei. She slipped the plain black pen into a cup with about a dozen others, careful to leave no fingerprints as she did, before she spoke again. “It was noble of you.”

“What game are you playing here, Miss Stone?” he asked, with raised voice and narrowed eyes. “What is it you want from me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Everyone here has a motive. I want to know what yours is.”

“And what if I don’t have one?"

“ _Everyone_ has a motive,” he repeated through clenched teeth.

“Then what was _your_ motive for bringing me here?” she shot back. “Why pull me away from the party in front of everyone? Did you just want to get me alone, or were you trying to make someone else jealous?” It surprised her how quickly the conversation had shifted from blandly polite to aggressive, but it didn’t worry her. This was a real conversation. This was more than vacuous small talk about charity events. These types of conversations revealed secrets.

At the accusation, Jaime’s entire posture suddenly relaxed and he barked out a laugh. “You’re too smart for your own good, aren’t you? You’re not just playing at being clever.”

“Well, I’ve never been accused of being stupid.” Sansa had been, of course, but never Alayne. “Or a gold digger, for that matter.”

Jaime sighed and shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to imply that, really. I just don’t understand why you're interested in me.” When she only quirked an eyebrow in response, he elaborated, “I’m an old man with graying hair and one hand, Alayne. There are plenty of _young_ men downstairs, including my brother who—”

“Wait, stop,” she said, genuinely shocked for the first time in the conversation. She thought she had done all the necessary research. She thought she knew Jaime as well as she could, but she had missed one huge facet of the man she wanted to seduce. “What was that about your hand?”

A shadow passed over Jaime’s handsome face, as he raised his right arm, the one she had run her hand down only moments ago. “You didn’t notice? Not everyone does right away. My father and sister spared no expense trying to make me look _normal_ again.”

She hadn’t noticed, but she did now. The hand was completely still. There was no subtle twitching, no flexing of fingers, no movement at all. It was the only aspect of the hand that wasn’t completely lifelike. Apparently, the Lannister fortune could buy more than she thought was even scientifically possible. “No, I really didn’t,” she whispered. “How—?”

“Injured during a firefight,” he answered. “They only wanted to take a few fingers at first, but I wouldn’t let them. I thought I’d beat the odds, but the wound kept getting infected, and the doctors said the only way I’d survive is if they cut the entire damned thing off. So there you have it. You’re throwing yourself a handless old man who brought it all upon himself.”

“Hah!” Alayne exclaimed indignantly, mouth agape. “First, I am hardly throwing myself at you. Second, the fact you’re missing a hand doesn’t make a goddamned difference to me. You’re ridiculously handsome, and I thought you were interesting, and you seemed real unlike everyone else on this bloody island, but you’re clearly not interested in actually getting to know me.” She tucked her clutch under her arm and made to storm out of the office. It was a risky move to walk out on him already. If he let her go without protest, that would be the end of it.

But, as she hoped, he didn’t let her go. He reached out with his good hand and grasped her arm. “Hey, look, I’m sorry. There’s no need for the dramatics.”

_Dramatics? Dear lord, he’s insufferable._ “Maybe I just don’t like people assuming the worst about me,” she said, boldly meeting his eyes.

Jaime was quiet for a long moment. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, as his eyes moved back and forth between hers. “Yeah, I’ve never liked that either,” he finally conceded. “See, I’m not just old and handless, I’m also a complete asshole.”

Sansa laughed and leaned into his touch slightly, maneuvering her body so their faces were close enough she could smell the wine on his breath. “I’m afraid I’m not scared off that easily,” she told him softly. “I like you, Jaime.”

His eyes fell to her lips and stayed there. It was all the encouragement she needed to close the short distance between them and press their lips together. It was a tame kiss, but the contact sent a shock through her body. And when he kissed her back, she felt herself smiling against his lips. The man Petyr and Theon both seemed convinced was impossible to seduce was kissing her back and holding her hip and moaning quietly into her mouth.

But when he broke the kiss almost as swiftly as it had begun, she felt like an idiot all over again. She was letting her family down by fighting a pointless battle with this man who had built up walls that would take more than one argument and an innocent kiss to tear down.

It wasn’t a total loss though. He wanted her. She could tell by the way he was breathing and the way his eyes kept falling to the stretch of bare skin between her breasts. It wasn’t a lack of desire keeping him from her. It was something else she would need to figure out.

“You’re too young for me.”

_Bullshit._ Age had never stopped men from pursuing her before. “Says who? I’m 21-years-old, and I’m—”

“21-years-old?” he guffawed, running his hand through his silver-streaked hair. “I’m almost twice your age!”

“I don’t care, so why should you?”

Jaime smiled at her, but it was the kind of smile a father might offer his daughter. It was pure condescension masked as kindness, and it made her hate him more than she already had. “You’re a sweet girl, Alayne, and beautiful. You should find yourself a nice boy—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I should do,” she interrupted, moving toward the door again. “And you don’t get to tell me what I should want. I’ve been on my own since I was—eight-years-old.” She almost said _twelve_ on accident. “And I’ve managed just fine making my own decisions. You’re not my father.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t want to hear whatever it was he had to say, so she turned her back on him and closed the door behind her. It was a childish thing to do, particularly for someone trying to prove that she _wasn’t_ a child, but she was genuinely annoyed and if she stayed any longer, she worried she would say something regrettable.

As she marched down the stairs and let herself out the front door without saying goodbye, she prayed bugging Cersei’s office would be enough. The bridge with Jaime was probably burned, and he would no doubt tell his brother of her tantrum. _Maybe I’ll have to make Joffrey Baratheon my mark, after all. Or the daughter, if those lesbian rumors have any truth to them._

She tried to stay positive, but the word _failure_ kept echoing in her ears. There was only one thing that could possibly make her feel better now, and she knew exactly where to find it.

 

* * *

 

 

After finishing her third drink, she was starting to feel lightheaded. She wasn’t quite drunk yet, but her skin felt pleasantly warm and she had almost forgotten all about Jaime Lannister.

“Another beer, sweetheart?”

Renly Baratheon leaned over the bar. She hadn’t expected to find him here. The youngest Baratheon brother used to show off his wealth nearly as much as Robert. He had driven the flashiest cars and donned the most expensive watches and dressed himself in the most high-end brands available. Now, he was tending bar on the poor side of the island in a worn, flannel shirt. She was worried for him, but it was nice to see a familiar face that didn’t instantly fill her with hatred.

“Yes, please, thank you.”

He nodded and began to fill another glass. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look more like a wine or cocktail kind of girl.”

She liked the taste of wine better, but it was a relief to just order a beer and not have to worry about ordering the right year or finding the most expensive. It was also nice not to have a snobbish man breathing down her neck the entire time, asking if she could taste the hints of oak or whatever. “I just came from a party that wouldn’t dream of serving beer,” she offered in explanation.

“Ah, I see, already sick of the snooty bastards on the other side?” he chuckled. “Summer’s hardly begun, love.”

_You were one of those snooty bastards once. So was I._ “Not sick of them exactly,” she said. “I just needed a moment to relax.”

“Alayne! Alayne Stone, is that you?” Her jaw clenched and she wondered if she would be able to push the beer away by the time Margaery Tyrell reached her.

She wasn’t. “I didn’t place you as a beer-drinking sort of girl,” Margaery laughed. “How do you stay so goddamned slim?” The short, sequined gold dress she was wearing shimmered under the bar lights. “Hey, Renly, darling, could you get me one of those, too?”

Renly didn’t return the smile she gave him, just pursed his lips and began pouring the drink as requested. _That’s interesting_. “You left Tyrion’s party, too?”

“Yeah, I put in my time, but I needed a real drink.” She took a surprisingly long gulp from the glass Renly handed to her. “Those parties can get suffocating, right? If one more person asked me if I could detect the hints of oak or whatever-the-fuck in the fucking Arbor fucking gold, I swear I was going to scream.”

Alayne felt a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. It wasn’t the fake smile she had practiced either. It was real, and that scared her a little. “They can never let you drink in peace, can they?”

“How would they show off how pretentious they are otherwise?”

Alayne giggled, actually _giggled_. It was an insipid little noise she sometimes made when she indulged too much. She could already hear Petyr scolding her for her recklessness, but when Margaery started giggling along with her, she found she didn’t care what he would say.

“I suppose I should get it used to it though,” Margaery sighed. “I’ll be marrying into a family even richer than mine soon. Hell, soon I’ll be the one throwing those fucking parties.”

“Has Joffrey proposed then?”

“No, I haven’t picked out the ring for him yet. But soon enough.” She threw back another gulp of her drink and grimaced slightly. “Do you think I should go with The Citadel Jewelers or something more exotic? Maybe a gemstone from Pentos?”

“I’m sure whatever you pick out will be perfect. You have exquisite taste.”

“I know,” Margaery said, causing Alayne to giggle again. “Yours isn’t so bad either, you know. Even if you weren’t so interesting, I’d probably befriend you anyways just so I could borrow that dress."

“This dress?” Alayne looked down at the skimpy garment again and shrugged. “You can have it, if you want. I’m never wearing it again.”

“Bad night, hon?”

“I’ve had better, yeah.”

“Well, that’s what the alcohol is for,” Margaery said, slamming her empty glass down. “Renly, sweetie, another round for my table. If you keep them coming, I’ll tip like the Queen of fucking Meereen.” Renly only nodded tersely, but Margaery didn’t seem bothered by his attitude. “Come with me, Alayne. I want you to meet my favorite brother.”

She was thankful it was Loras sitting at the table instead of Willas. The youngest Tyrell son was just as beautiful as she remembered, with soft dark curls and eyes the color of honey. The flush in his cheeks added to his beauty and told Alayne he was already well past drunk. “Loras, this is my new friend Alayne. She’s the one who bought the Merryweathers’ old place.”

“Oh, Willas’s skinny dipping friend,” Loras chuckled. “I recognize you from the style section,” he added, his words slurring together slightly. “That was a magnificent dress you were wearing. Margaery was sick with envy.”

“Oh, shut up,” Margaery said, before Alayne could thank him for the compliment. “She was at the party tonight, Loras.”

“So you had the same idea then?” Loras reached across the table to place his hand over hers. It was a gesture that would have sent her heart racing as a girl, but now she could tell there was nothing romantic behind it. “You can’t get drunk at those parties. Somehow, some asswipe with a camera phone and a motive always manages to sneak in and then it’s all anyone can talk about for weeks. They don’t expect to find us rich kids out here in the ghetto though.”

“This is hardly the ghetto.” Renly threw their tray of drinks down and marched away. Loras let go of Alayne’s hand and craned his neck to watch him go, nearly falling out of the booth in the process. He might have, if Margaery hadn’t quickly stood up and eased him back into place.

“Do you know him?” she asked Loras.

Loras began to answer, but Margaery cut him off before he could get a single word out. “Not really, but he’s my favorite bartender. None of them like us coming here, even if we have more money than they could dream of, but at least he’s sexy as hell. Now, what’s got you down tonight, Alayne? Did you have an encounter with the wicked witch of Arbor Island?”

“That’s your future mother-in-law, sis.”

“Don’t remind me,” Margaery groaned. “I already have nightmares.”

“No, it was her stupid brother,” Alayne grumbled, running her fingertip around the rim of her glass. She tried to contain the words pushing at her lips, but she was feeling so good, too good. She was gossiping and laughing and drinking, and, for a moment, it was almost like she was a normal 21-year-old girl. “He kissed me back and then acted like I was some stupid little girl who he couldn’t possibly be interested in.”

“Holy shit,” Margaery gasped. “You kissed Tyrion?”

“No,” Alayne giggled. “Not Tyrion. I kissed Jaime.”

“Oh, sweetheart, we’ve all been there,” Loras said, rolling his eyes and giving her arm a sympathetic pat. “Don’t waste your time on that one. He’s gorgeous, but he’s dead inside.”

Margaery grimaced, and Alayne knew why. She suddenly felt less nervous about being so open with the Tyrell siblings. They had secrets of their own, and now she knew at least one of them. She never understood why some people cared so much about who other people loved. Love was love, as far as she was concerned, and if no one was being hurt, then what could be the harm in it? But she was sure Senator Tyrell’s conservative, “family values” voters wouldn’t feel the same way if the truth of his youngest son’s sexuality became public knowledge.

“You tried too?”

“Yeah, me and Margaery both,” Loras answered, and Margaery winced again. “The same fucking summer. We were covering all our bases.”

“Loras, come on—”

“What?” he snapped. “Why does she care? She doesn’t give a fuck. Do you give a fuck if I’m gay, Alayne? Do you give a fuck if I fuck guys?”

“No, I—”

“That’s not the point, Loras,” Margaery whispered through clenched teeth. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

Loras waved his hand in his sister’s face and finished off a beer. “Fuck dad,” he growled. “I don’t give a fuck anymore. Next time one of those vultures pushes a video camera in my face, I’m going to tell him just how much I love sucking cock.”

“Loras. Shut. Up.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Alayne promised Margaery, who seemed too busy glaring at Loras to hear her. “I mean, if it’s a secret. I wouldn’t do that.”

“He’s just drunk and talking nonsense. Don’t pay attention to a thing he says like this,” Margaery said, forcing a smile on to her face. “I really should get him home though. Do you mind, Alayne? And don’t worry about the drinks, they’re all on me.”

Alayne considered asking them to stay just a little longer to see if she could get any more out of them, but Margaery had their bill paid and Loras through the front door before she could even think of what to say. Alcohol certainly loosened lips, but it seemed Margaery’s mind was always at work. Alayne respected that.

“You’re friends with the Tyrells then?” Renly asked.

“I barely know them.” _But you seem to know Loras well enough._

“Don’t trust them,” Renly warned, a faint scowl still clinging to his lips. “They’re all a bunch of stuck-up twats. You can’t trust them.”

“Is that right?” She and Renly both looked up to find Willas Tyrell walking toward them, leaning heavily on his cane. “And here I was thinking we were friends, Renly.”

“Fuck off, Tyrell,” Renly spat. “We’re not friends, we never were. And keep your fucking siblings out of my bar, would you? No one wants them here. We don’t need your money."

Renly stormed off again, and Willas let out a long sigh. “He and my brother used to be friends,” he offered. “They had a sort of… falling out, a while back.”

_You mean they broke up. Maybe because your family helped the Lannisters kill his brother and get away with it?_ “That’s too bad,” she said, absentmindedly drawing little hearts in the condensation on her glass. “They’d make a handsome couple.”

Willas noticeably tensed, but he didn’t try to correct her. “Are Margaery and Loras still here? They called me for a ride.”

“They left a few minutes ago, must have caught a cab.”

“Of course they did,” he muttered. “Was Loras causing a scene or something?”

“No, not really, but I think your sister was worried he had too much to drink.”

“She could’ve called.”

“Well, you could always give _me_ a ride home instead, so it’s not a total loss,” she suggested, with a coy smile. If Margaery’s assessment of her brother’s feelings for her were true, it wasn’t kind to be encouraging him when nothing could happen. But she also didn’t feel much like stumbling outside in her heels to try to wave down a cab on her own.

“Of course,” he agreed, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Do you need to close your tab? I’d be happy to pay for your drinks.”

When she slid out of the booth, it felt like the entire room was spinning. She grabbed Willas’s arm and pressed against him to steady herself. She didn’t miss the way Willas tensed and looked at her then. It was the same way he looked at her on the beach. She supposed she shouldn’t have been that surprised, seeing as she was wearing a dress that was hardly more than underwear. “No, your sister paid for everything.”

“Of course she did,” he laughed. “Are you all right to walk?”

Alayne bristled at that. “Yes, of course I can walk,” she snapped, dropping his arm pointedly and making her way toward the door without him.

He followed after her quickly and managed to reach the door first. He held it open and flashed her a nervous grin. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” she sighed, walking past him. “Ignore me. I’m just drunk. And cranky, apparently.”

“Long night?”

“The longest.” He nodded sympathetically, as he opened the car door for her and helped her inside with a gentle grasp on her elbow.

When he eased into the driver’s seat, she felt her shoulders stiffen around her neck. It was a strange feeling to be so close to him again, after so many years. It reminded her of setting her blanket beside his chair on the beach, hoping he would look down and smile at her. It reminded her of him reading out loud from his novels, using a different voice for each character. There was a book of poetry by one of her favorite authors at her feet. She wondered if he would think it odd if she asked him to read from it.

“Some of my favorites are in this compilation,” she said, as she plucked the book from the floor. “You have a good taste.”

“I’d better, being an English professor and all.”

“Where do you teach?”

“Oldtown University,” he said. “I’ve been there for three years, but I’ve only just started teaching a poetry class. Did you study English Literature?”

“At Braavos University. That and Political Theory.”

“Political Theory,” he laughed, and she could sense that he was rolling his eyes. “That’s a popular topic around these parts.”

“Literature was for fun, political theory was for self-preservation,” she said, trying to hide her irritation with his snap judgment of her.  _Why should I care what he thinks?_ “It’s helped with my charity work, too. Even the most noble pursuits are political in their own ways."

“Everything is,” Willas agreed solemnly. “Is self-preservation why you’re wasting your time with the Lannisters?”

There was an accusatory tone to his voice that annoyed her almost as much as Jaime’s earlier condescension. _Why do men always think they know what’s best for me?_ She wanted to remind him they already had this conversation and that he certainly didn’t know her well enough to be offering such advice. "As hard as it is might be to believe, I’d just like to make some friends while I’m here.”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” he said, as they slowed to a stop at a red light. “I really should stop listening to my sister. And, honestly, I think I’m just trying to find something wrong with you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met the other night.”

_Well, that was forward._ Willas had always been confident about his intelligence, but he was painfully shy around women as a young man. She assumed he’d be the same now, pouting and dancing around what he actually wanted instead of simply saying it.

She also expected him to drop the subject when she said nothing, but he only pushed forward. “I’d love to take you out to dinner. There’s a French restaurant around here with an amazing antique bookstore above it. What do you think?”

She thought it sounded like the perfect date, but there was no way she could agree to it. _Stop being so good_ , she silently willed, _and handsome. It will only make this harder._ “I—that sounds lovely, it really does, but I’m not sure I’m—” She stumbled over her words and fell quiet again.

“Interested?” Willas suggested. There was a pained smile on his face when they pulled into her driveway. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’d really like to be friends.”

“Friends,” he echoed. “Sure, friends. I’d like that, too.”

“Good.” A loose curl was hanging over his forehead. The urge to reach out and tuck it behind his ear struck her suddenly, so she tightened her grip on her clutch instead. “Maybe we could go to that bookstore soon? As friends.”

Willas nodded and made to stand up, probably to open the door for her again, so she quickly pushed it open herself. “Well, goodnight then. And thank you for the ride. I owe you one.” Willas didn’t say anything, just nodded again with that same pained smile on his face. It made her feel sick.

She clumsily made her way inside and kicked off her heels the moment the door closed behind her. She leaned against the wall and sunk to the floor, too worn out and buzzed and confused to consider just how much damage she had done. Nothing was going as planned. The thought of telling Petyr everything filled her with dread, but she couldn’t deny she desperately wanted to talk to _someone_. She pulled her phone out of her purse and let her finger hover over the call button next to Theon’s name. He’d come if she asked him to. He’d make sarcastic comments, and he’d tell her that he told her so, but he’d listen and he'd make her tea and he’d give her the best advice he could think up.

_I’m the only you can trust, Alayne. I’m the only one you can rely on._ She scrolled up her contacts list and pressed the button next to Petyr’s name instead.

 

* * *

 

“Shaggy!”

“No, dear, I told you, his name is _Spot_ ,” the woman explained slowly, with an empty smile on her face. “Because of the spot on his nose, see.”

_How creative._ “Rickon, what did I tell you about just running up to dogs like that? You’re supposed to ask if you can pet them first.”

“Oh, really, it’s no problem, Osha. Spot is very friendly,” the woman said. _Oh hell, are we neighbors? Should I know her name?_ “Rickon is welcome to play with him any time he likes. And I’d be happy to watch him, if you ever need a babysitter.”

“That’s very nice of you.” _God, have I really met this woman before?_ “Rickon, we really need to be getting home. Follow me, all right?”

“Bye, Shaggy!” Rickon exclaimed, running one of his small hands over the dog’s nose, before chasing after Osha. “He looks like Shaggy,” the boy— _her son_ —said, as they walked down the sidewalk. “Do you know what happened to Shaggy?”

He had been asking her about Shaggy for months, and she was never able to come up with a better answer than, “No, Rick, I’m sorry, I don’t. Maybe we can go to the shelter and adopt a new dog, though? We can name him Shaggy.”

“No,” Rickon sighed, like he always did. “I want the _real_ Shaggy. He must be with Bran. Shaggy and Summer were friends.”

_Bran. That’s a new name._ “Whose Bran? Someone from school?”

“No, stupid, Bran is my brother,” Rickon answered, like it should have been obvious. “Do you know where he is?”

_Brother? Oh god._ Osha had been filled with joy the first time her adopted son Rickon finally spoke. It was months after she had first brought him home. _He’s a good boy, but he’s been through some significant trauma_ , the man with the green eyes had said. _With his parents dead, he doesn’t have any family left in this world, except you, of course_. But the more Rickon spoke, the more terrified she became. Every time he mentioned a brother and sister with red hair or a dark little girl with a sharp laugh, she grew more convinced the man with the green eyes had lied to her.

The couple down the street had been trying to adopt for a year with no luck. They were good people with good jobs whose only fault seemed to be bad genetics. Why had the process been so quick for her? Why hadn't there been an extensive home visit? Why had only the barest of paperwork been filled out? Why was the green-eyed man the only one she spoke to, and why didn't he even leave her a business card? She hadn’t questioned it at the time. She had been alone for so long that she didn’t want to see the warning signs, not when the man with the green eyes was telling her she would finally be a mother.

“No, Rick, I don’t, I’m sorry.”

“I bet he’s taking care of Shaggy,” Rickon said, with a smile that broke her heart. _Maybe he just has an active imagination? Maybe he’s dreamed this all up?_

It was an easy solution, and a plausible one even. If only she could have believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Arya chapter is up next! It will be titled "Mercy" and should be up in a few weeks.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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